


The Will of the Free

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mentions of Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Mentions of past abuse, Omega Dean Winchester, Religious Imagery, Slow Burn, probably blasphemy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-24 03:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 77,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13802304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: "Make Yourself Useful."That's the closest thing to encouragement John Winchester ever gave his sons. Hardly the kind of nurturing two boys who have just lost their mother need, but it's what they had. The lesson stuck though. No matter how far Dean runs, how much he tries to forget, the memories of his past are always right there with him.





	1. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, kids. This one's gonna hurt.
> 
> Much love to [KreweOfImp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp) for being my cheerleader, my beta-reader, my love, and my rock. As always, she keeps me writing when I think I'm being a hack. If you end up loving this work, she deserves pretty much as much credit as I do. Also thanks to [Sharkfish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish) for flailing at me about this and giving me some style tips. It's always good to have someone who loves ABO looking over shit like this before I throw it at the internet
> 
> I have no set posting schedule for this, and I apologise in advance if that means "sporadic and frustrating". I know what's gonna happen, but first I gotta get there.

The truth is that you always have a choice. It might not be a good choice. You might not like the options laid out in front of you; hell, you might hate all of them equally. But in the end, you get to pick. It’s that damned free will thing Pastor Jim was always talking about, the thing that differentiates the men from the angels. Angels were God’s first brood, a bunch of holy children who were destined never to choose for themselves, but when God made man, he messed with the programming and gave them all the ability to fuck up any way they wanted. Dean’s been exercising that right day in and day out since before he was old enough to know the difference. Sometimes, he wonders whether it might have been preferable not to have that ugly privilege. Easier, sure. No choice, no struggling with the consequences, because it never could have gone any other way. But he’s not really sure that would have been better. It’s all hypothetical, anyway. Better to wish for a different life. At least that might have happened if he’d been born to a different family, in a different year, or even with some slightly different genetics. But hell, none of that matters, because he is who he is, and he’s only got the one life, and he’s got a whole list of choices, and every once is crappier than the last.

Free will is a length of rope, and God wants you to hang yourself with it.

It doesn’t matter how long he stares at the want ads in the paper. The choices don’t get any more appealing. There are quite a few jobs Dean is quite perfectly capable of, but none of them are good choices to make. A job that is good isn’t necessarily a good job for Dean. For one thing, he needs a job he can start right away, because if he’s gotta wait more than a couple weeks to get paid, the cash he had tucked away for a day as rainy as this one is going to run out, and he can only shark so much pool before someone puts more fists to his face than he can fend off alone. And for another, he needs a job that isn’t gonna ask too many questions about his past, either employment history or personal life, because none of the answers he can give are going to fly with any decent kind of folk. And lastly, (and if you ask Dean’s opinion, this one is the most important), he needs a job that isn’t going to put him in close sniffing range of any particularly aggressive alphas, because bluster and bravado and swagger and a larger build than your average omega will only bluff so far when a good sniff shows his true colors. Regardless of whatever else is at stake, Dean’s pride can’t take another hit like that. Can’t lose another job like that. Dean can’t handle turning tail and running away from another one of those situations, not now, maybe not ever.

Garage is out. He’s more than qualified to do the work, overqualified, really, but the sense-memory of that heavy, musty alpha smell and the attitudes that generally go along with it have him crossing the help wanted ad out before he finishes reading. There’s usually at least one hothead alpha in a place like that. Some stereotypes exist for a reason. It’s just the kind of work that those guys tend to gravitate towards. Guys like that, they don’t care what kind of omega you are, just that you are one, and Dean’s done putting himself in situations where a no needs to be followed up with a threat to be taken seriously. If he punches out every single co-worker who thinks his biology is more important than his opinions, then any sympathy he’s got going for him is gonna run out about as fast as his money does, and then he’s no better off. No, automotive work has too many perils for Dean to take that route, even if he would enjoy the actual work.

If he didn’t have to worry about background checks and references, office work would probably be Dean’s best bet. That’s where you find the most diverse workforces. The air’s such a jumble of alpha, beta, and omega scents, he’d blend in just fine, and any harassment could be dealt with by Human Resources. But “ _spent the past three years on the road, no fixed address, scamming credit cards and hustling pool"_ doesn’t really look that great on a resume, so it’s unlikely he’d get an interview.

Come to think of it, that’s going to exclude him from most legitimate work. His best bet is likely going to be finding something less…savory. Something off the books. Something under the table.

The thought is not appealing.

Last time Dean was in a hole-in-the-wall bar, trying to pick the lucky chump who was going to lose all his cash in a game of pool, the guy at the table beside him said he had a pretty mouth. The way his stare slid away from Dean’s eyes to regions due south made it pretty clear what he thought Dean could do with that mouth, if properly motivated, and Dean declined his offer of a drink maybe just a little too fast to avoid drawing attention. The very thought of taking a balding businessman’s cash in exchange for whatever it was he had in mind was enough to turn Dean’s stomach, and even if he wanted the drink he’s not sure he could have kept it down. Sure, there’s great money in that kind of work, and in his travels Dean has met some folks, even some omegas, who have made a decent living at it and not lost a wink of sleep over it. Not Dean though. There’s only room for so many kinds of self-loathing in one man’s brain, and he’ll die before he lets some alpha knot him, especially one he doesn’t know or even like. He’ll fuck betas, gender doesn’t matter, and he’s fooled around with a couple omegas over the years, but he knows it wouldn’t be betas or omegas looking to buy his attention. 

Dejected, Dean throws the newspaper down on the wobbly table in his shitty motel room. His eyes slide to the water stain on the ceiling, trying to decide if it looks more like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man or a rodent of unusual size. He settles on the Marshmallow Man, if only because the edges are all kinda squishy and amorphous, but it’s only a temporary distraction. He has a choice to make, and the fact that he doesn’t like any of his options doesn’t make that any less true. Technically speaking, he could choose not to choose, but the consequences there are worse than any of the options he’s identified at this stage of the game. He’s gotta make a choice.

Dean chooses to get drunk.

It’s not a good choice, but it is one that makes him feel less weighed down by the ugliness of his current situation. He throws a beat-up leather jacket on over his red and blue plaid shirt, stuffs his wallet into the pocket of his jeans, and heads out of the motel to track down the liquor store he knows he drove past when he got here a few days ago. It was off to the left, he’s pretty sure of that, but everything else is vague enough not to count for much. Dean sets out on an aimless wander. He’ll find a liquor store eventually.

~*~

The sun has crept below the horizon by the time he’s en route home, bathing the various greys of the urban landscape in dusky light. It’s not a familiar neighborhood, but Dean knows it well enough to let his feet guide him and not think too closely on his chosen path. Really, all neighborhoods are unfamiliar these days. It’s been so long since Dean stayed anywhere long enough to leave a mark, he’s gotten out of the habit of letting places leave a mark on him in return. A few weeks here, a month there. He spent three and a half months in one place about a year back, and that made his skin itch so bad he was worried the decrepit apartment he’d rented, “fully” furnished, had bedbugs or something. But it was just the wanderlust setting in, driving him to put the town behind him and get back to where nobody would be able to recognize him by name or face or, god forbid, scent. As soon as someone starts getting familiar, that’s usually a good sign that Dean has overstayed his welcome.

This time though, Dean wants it to be different. Literally nothing about his experience says there’s any reason to believe it even can be, but he’s so tired, and his body aches for a bit of respite. It doesn’t even have to be permanent, just less temporary. Six months. That’s the goal. Stay somewhere long enough for roots to start forming, and see how he feels about ripping them up. Maybe he won’t even make it that long. Maybe he can’t anymore. But the weariness demands it, and he knows he can’t live out of a duffle bag forever, so he’s got to try.

Tomorrow though, because tonight he’s got a bottle of Jack for company, and Jack gets jealous when he tries to focus on other things. Tonight, it’s sweet oblivion by way of Tennessee sour mash.

Instinctively, Dean knows he’s about two blocks from his motel, but the route he’s taken has put him on a street he’s never been down before. It’s a bit nicer than the part of town Dean’s staying in, the part of town it’s backed right up against, and it feels very, very out of place. There’s a couple of shops with nice window displays behind their plate glass, but Dean can see the roll cages stored away for the day, ready to slam into place any minute now to protect that nice clean glass from people like Dean. A coffee shop, already locked tight and dark except for a lone light fixture, sits on the corner. Not one of those chain deals, just some mom and pop thing, and he bets it’s nectar of the gods compared to the sludge he’s been getting from the gas station since he staggered into town. Maybe when he’s got a few spare bucks, he’ll have to poke his head in, see if it’s any good. After he finds a job.

After.

As he stares in the window of the coffee shop, trying to decide if he could don an apron and sling lattes well enough to keep a job there (on the off chance they even had one to offer), the wind changes and Dean catches a sweet scent, something warm and soothing. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but the curiosity instantly becomes more enthralling than the thought of a career as a barista, so he turns on his heel and seeks the source of the smell. Nose in the air, he walks into the wind, catching notes of cinnamon on the breeze.

Without quite knowing what to expect, Dean finds himself standing outside a bakery with a sign above the door proclaiming it Lafitte’s. The neon says it’s closed, but there’s still lights on inside. He can see someone working behind the counter, a veritable bear of a man, but he moves with a lightness that makes Dean curious.

That curiosity turns to intrigue when he notices the help wanted sign in the window.

Nobody even posts those things anymore, do they? Obviously, someone does, because he’s looking at one, but it seems like one of those things that is far too good, too coincidental, to actually be any good. He stares at it, black text on white cardboard, for so long that it wouldn’t be a surprise to find his eyes boring holes in the thing, trying to sort out the mysteries of the universe as they pertain to job applications. He’s almost entirely talked himself out of even asking about the job, you know, tomorrow, when they’re open for business, and nearly ready to turn around and go home, when the lock on the door clicks open. Dean startles, jumping back a few paces before he catches himself, but it’s beyond habit to keep himself out of grabbing distance of strangers at this point. It’s become an instinct. Maybe one day Dean will live a soft enough life to warrant breaking himself of the habit, but he doubts it.

“You lookin’ for work?” asks the man who is too light on his feet for his size, a cap now donning his head and his chef’s jacket exchanged for a navy blue peacoat.

“I don’t know shit about baking,” Dean replies, the exact opposite of what a clever person would say in his shoes.

“Job’s a baker’s assistant,” the man replies in an accent that marks him as Cajun. “Don’t gotta know shit about shit, just do what I tell ya.”

“Then yeah,” Dean replies. “I’m lookin.” There’s still heavy skepticism, and why wouldn’t there be, but it’s the closest thing to a solid lead he’s had since he landed here, so it’s worth pursuing.

“Well I guess we’d better schedule you an interview then.”

“I got nothin’ but free time,” Dean informs him. “Just tell me when.”

The Cajun laughs. “If you and Jack Daniels got nowhere better to be, you come on inside right now and we can have a chat over a slice of pie.”

Dean hesitates. He doesn’t know this guy from a hole in the wall, and he’s easily big enough that Dean doubts his ability to hold his own in a fight. With the way the smells of the bakery waft around and cling to his skin, it’s hard to tell what he is other than big, but with his size it wouldn’t be a stretch to find out he’s an alpha. If Dean’s right about that, he’ll be off the street and inside the bakery before he knows for sure, and by then it’ll be too late. The Cajun eyes him almost as warily for a moment, but something changes and his expression softens into a broad grin.

“Well hell, where are my manners?” He extends a hand in greeting, his smile and tone warm enough that Dean finds them disarming. “Name’s Benjamin Lafitte. You can call me Benny.”

“Dean Winchester,” he replies, shaking Benny’s massive hand. Benny’s grip is as strong as the rest of him looks, but rather than frightening Dean, it puts him at ease. He’s at a loss for why until he notices it, the smell of cinnamon and apples tickling his nose without a hint of anything sinister hiding behind it. If he breathes deeply, he can pick out just a slight note of old leather, but nothing else. Nothing alpha.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for omega,” Benny says, leading him inside, “but you smell like you’re scared enough to bolt and all I done is be bigger’n you, and I don’t even have an alpha nose to pick up on that, so I’m betting I’m not the only one who misread the situation.”

“That obvious huh?” Dean mutters, shrugging out of his jacket. He hasn’t had a lot of proper job interviews in his life but he’s betting that wearing flannel and asking pointed questions about someone’s gender designation are both entirely off the table in polite circles.

“Just a bit.” Benny laughs though, and it’s not unkind, so Dean tries to be less self-conscious about it. “Tell you what. I’ll grab some pie and a couple of glasses, and we can just have a chat over food and drink like folks used to, and we’ll see what’s what.” Dean nods assent, grabbing a chair at one of the little tables in the open part of the bakery, and waits for Benny to return.

The place is impeccably clean but also entirely boring. It’s decorated in soft blues and eggshell white, the tables and chairs wrought iron like you’d see on some rich asshole’s patio, and not much else. With a name like Lafitte’s Dean was expecting some stuffy Parisian bakery with French pastries his uncultured tongue could neither pronounce of nor properly appreciate the complex flavors of, but that just means he’s oh for two on assumptions about Benny so far.

“Sorry the chairs ain’t that comfy,” Benny offers when he returns. There’s a pair of short glasses in one hand, a few cubes of ice in each, and a plate with two slices of pie in the other. He sets the glasses down on the table and pulls a second plate out from under the first, then pushes one of the slices onto it with a fork, offering it to Dean. Dean mumbles appreciation and twists the cap off the bottle of Jack, pouring a careful measure into each glass, not entirely enthused about giving his potential future employer any ideas about his drinking habits.

“They’re fine,” Dean assures him.

“Well then,” Benny says, taking one of the glasses and sniffing the liquor, “why don’t you go ahead and tell me a bit about yourself.”

“I uh,” Dean starts, pausing to clear the frog in his throat. Where to begin? What does he even have to say for himself? . Best to just speak carefully and not volunteer too much. “I mostly work with my hands. Labor, you know? Done mechanical work, construction. Stuff like that. Never really done much baking but I do appreciate a good pie.”

“I didn’t ask you about your work,” Benny says gently before Dean can continue. “Mostly I’m interested in who you are, brother.”

This is unlike any job interview Dean has ever had. “Not much to tell,” Dean says, and they both know it’s a lie.

“Humour me,” Benny presses, and despite the fact that he’s volunteered no information whatsoever, the welcoming smile on Benny’s face gives Dean the impression that he’s doing alright here. Rather than trying to analyze how that could possibly be, Dean takes a sip of his drink and gives it a shot.

“Been through a rough patch over the last couple of years. Nothing particularly exciting, just life throwing lemons, but it’s hit me hard. What I got right now is pretty much my car, a duffel bag, and a give ‘em hell attitude. Not a great place to be, but I’m above ground, and that ain’t half bad.” It’s a pitiful attempt at sounding positive, and it’s a spin he doesn’t really feel, but it’s a whole lot more palatable than _I’ve got nothing to live for except for the fact that I don’t actually want to be dead._

“Where’s home?” Benny asks, pushing the pie at Dean across the table. Does he look like he needs to be fed or something? He’s not trying to throw together a pity party here, and he sure as hell doesn’t want Benny thinking he’s worse off than he actually is. Dean takes a bite of the pie, still warm, and hums happily at the sweet explosion of cinnamon on his tongue, the tender apples, the perfectly flaky crust.

“Kansas, originally,” Dean replies when he’s done chewing. “But I haven’t been back there in years and I have no plans on going back any time soon. Nothing there for me now.”

“And how long are you here for? You sound like a guy without much in the way of roots.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dean tells him, wary but honest. “I don’t know how long I’m here for, but I want it to be long enough to matter. Find something worth doing, maybe put some roots down. I don’t know. I’m tired of drifting.” It’s the most he’s opened up to anyone in…hell, he doesn’t know. A long time, anyway.

Benny eats his pie quietly, not asking any more questions, and it unsettles Dean. Maybe that was the wrong answer. Maybe honesty was the wrong course of action. Dean tries to think of something clever or useful to say, but he can’t get enough of a read on the big guy to figure it out, so he stops trying and eats his pie. At least if he doesn’t get a job out of this, he can say he got some pie. And really, apples and cinnamon pair pretty well with a glass of whiskey, so what’s he got to complain about?

Forks clatter on plates as they finish eating, and Dean’s about to apologize for wasting Benny’s time when the man smiles at him, reaching a hand across the table.

“We’re closed on Monday, so you show up at eight and I’ll show you the ropes. It ain’t easy work, and on days the bakery’s open I’m gonna need you here at ungodly hours to get shit baked, but I got a good feelin’ about you, Dean.”

Dean stares at his hand like it’s got three heads, confused for a long moment until the words catch up to him. “You mean, you’re hiring me?”

“That’s the general idea, yeah,” Benny says with a laugh. Dean shakes his hand, still more than a little confused.

“But I don’t…”

“Don’t matter. I know what I’m lookin’ for in an employee, and it ain’t someone who already thinks they know more about baking than I do. I like you, Dean. I don’t know you that well, but I like you, and I think I’m gonna get to know you. So you show up at eight on Monday, and we’ll see how well you can work your way around a kitchen. Get on out of here now, I should be getting home. But I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies automatically, more elated than he has any right to be. He doesn’t even know how much Benny’s paying him, but it’s automatically gonna be more than not working is doing for him, and if he gets to eat any of what he bakes, ever, then it will officially be the best job he’s ever had. He grabs his jacket and the bottle of Jack, no longer looking to drink himself into oblivion, and turns for the door.

“Oh, and Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean replies, turning back around.

“You call me _sir_ again, I’ll smack you so hard your head spins.”

“You got it, Benny,” Dean replies with a grin. Apparently, going out for a drink was the right choice.


	2. Family Recipes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd so please let me know if you catch any spelling or grammatical flaws. I just couldn't wait to share!!

He’s standing in a church. That’s how Dean first knows it’s a dream, but that doesn’t give him any kind of power over it. People talk about lucid dreaming like it’s this thing you can just do, all it takes is to realize you’re dreaming and suddenly it’s this magical playground where you can just fuck around. If that’s a real thing, Dean’s wired wrong for it, because he’s often aware his dreams are dreams, and his nightmares too, but he’s never once been able to take control of any of them. This time is no different. He knows from the second it starts that it isn’t the waking world because he hasn’t set foot in a church in a long fucking time, and it would take something pretty big to get him to break that streak, but here he is, standing in the aisle of a church feeling about as out of place as a man could possibly feel. There’s sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows but if he turns his head they all blur together into some kaleidoscope mishmash of reds and greens and blues, and he can’t tell what saints are supposed to be depicted there. Despite the brilliant sunlight in his periphery the aisle ahead is couched in shadow. There will be an altar somewhere in that black void and if he’s dreaming of the church he thinks he’s dreaming of, the bible on the pulpit is a massive tome with gold edging on pages so thin you can practically see through them. It’ll have an embossed leather cover, this big ornate thing, and you can’t read in dreams so he won’t be able to read what the words actually say, but he’ll know. He’ll _know_.

_For God said, 'Honor your father and your mother,' and, 'He who speaks evil of father or mother, let him be put to death.'_

He dreams of this church often, unsure if it’s a real church he saw at some point in his earlier life, reconstructed from fragmented memories, or if it’s a complete fabrication of his brain, but the church is the same each and every time. The dream changes; sometimes it’s just the bible, open to that page, taunting him with his failure to follow a set of rules he never chose for himself. Sometimes it’s full of people, churchgoers affronted by his intrusion, and they stare at him while he stands silent and immobile in their midst. He wants to turn and run, but again with the dreams that aren’t lucid, so he just stands there. Sometimes his father is there, older than he ever got to be in life, grizzled and angry, and he screams at Dean. He screams the bible verse, his voice hoarse and raw, and flecks of spittle fly from his lips as he hurls the words at Dean. He screams accusations, some true, but unfairly slanted, some so false that he doesn’t even know how his own brain concocted them to write them into the dream. Those are the worst dreams, the ones where John finds him, because he was supposed to be free of all that years ago and now even in his own mind he can’t get clear of it.

Tonight it’s just the church and the bible and the sun that doesn’t quite reach the pulpit, and in the way of dreams, Dean stares at the page for what might be only a second or might be hours, and the whole time he wants to leave but his feet won’t move.

Dean wakes covered in sweat, legs tangled in the sheets, panting into the night air.

Tired though he is, he doesn’t get to go back to sleep.

John Winchester died a long, long time ago, but he’s still ruining Dean’s life. Even now, when he’s little more than dust and memories, his eldest son is crushed by the burden of his expectations, ones neither child nor man grown should ever have been made to feel like they were accountable to. John was a man of exacting standards, of military discipline, and of little mercy, and though he probably thought he was shaping his sons to bear the trials the world was sure to throw at them, all he really accomplished was to harden them both, to teach them that good was never good enough.

“ _Make yourself useful.”_

His voice still rings in Dean’s ears. He’s sure John meant something helpful by it; a reminder to be industrious and to contribute his share to whatever he was part of. He meant it as a motto, as a creed. He meant it because he came from a world where luxury and excess were the life of others, of those who could afford it. John and Mary were better off than the generation that raised them, of course, but surely that’s where the habit came from. John most certainly thought he was doing what was best for Dean and Sam when he drilled this thought into their heads from a young age, but it came across quite differently. It felt like a reprimand. It felt like an indictment. It felt like an accusations that Dean himself, the way he existed in nature, was not inherently useful and so he should strive to change that.

Even when John’s expectations seemed reasonable on the surface they chaffed at Dean. The Winchester patriarch was all alpha, bold and strong and demanding, with an unquestioning surety that he would be obeyed both by his beta wife and his two young boys. Mary was no simpering housewife, though. Even through the eyes of a child, Dean could see her strength made manifest in the way she met his eyes when they argued, in the way she put her foot down and gave no quarter when she picked a battle. They didn’t fight often, but when they did, it was more often than not Mary who came away the victor. And almost every time she felt it necessary to shrug off her husband’s rule and stand firm on something, it was about how to go about raising the boys. Soft-hearted, John would call her, sometimes fondly, but he always relented when Mary had her mind made up on something.

If she’d survived the fire, things would have been different.

They wouldn’t have spent so much time on the road growing up, that’s for sure. Dean would have finished high school instead of scrambling for a GED in his early twenties. Sam and John might have still had their falling out, but it probably wouldn’t have ended with Sam leaving the house without looking back, and it wouldn’t have taken John’s death for him to stop shutting Dean out. And if Dean had grown up with his mother’s kind strength instead of under his father’s oppressive thumb, he’d probably have a much different perspective on mates.

As it stands, she did perish, and so John is dead and Dean still hates him even after all these years. He still resents the man, though all that’s left of him is ash and nightmares. He still fights against John’s rules and his teaching and his influence, and the worst part is that while he fails to live up to John’s expectations, he also fails to step out from under his shadow.

For starters, there is no chance this side of hell that John would have approved of Dean’s new job. _A baker? That’s women’s work,_ he’d say. Earlier, it might have been _that’s omega work_ , but that word never crossed John’s lips again after Dean presented, not in any context. Not to deride, certainly never to endorse. He certainly had things to say about Dean’s presentation but he never once called it by name. He was always bitching that his elder son grew up ‘that way’ or lamenting that Dean was ‘what you are’ instead of an alpha like he was apparently supposed to be. John Winchester would not speak of his omega son. Winchester boys were supposed to be strapping alphas like their father; strong, commanding, powerful. They were supposed to lead, to dominate. They were supposed to be tough. No son of John Winchester’s could ever be _‘_ that’. Even when Sam hit the ripe old age of fifteen and showed himself to be a beta (statistically, so very common that Dean is still not sure to this day how John ever expected anything else), it wasn’t half the disappointment of Dean’s big dark secret. It was bad enough he was late to the party, going into his first heat at nearly nineteen when most kids figured out their secondary characteristics many years earlier, but to find out he was a damn omega? It’s a surprise dear old dad didn’t have a heart attack right then and there. The jury is still out as to whether that would have been better overall.

Mom would have stepped in to say something, if only she were around. She would never have let John breathe half the shit he hurled at Dean that night. He spent his first heat locked in his room scared half to death of what his father might say next, what he might do. He’s still surprised John didn’t toss him out on his ass as soon as the heat cleared.

While he struggles to untangle his legs from the sheets, Dean tries to remember when his last heat even was. It’s so hard to keep track, and it’s not like he looks forward to them. Every other omega he’s ever met (not like they have in depth conversations about this shit or anything but you know, sometimes it comes up in passing) has this neat little four times a year rhythm mapped out for them and it just kinda happens that way. You can time the seasons by it. Clockwork. Figures Dean would get the short end of the stick though. His childhood was fucked up, his life is fucked up, why shouldn’t his heat cycles be fucked up too? If he remembers correctly, he was in San Antonio last time he went into heat, barricading himself inside a decrepit motel room for five days until he was sure just the smell of him wouldn’t have every alpha in the zip code turning their noses in his direction, which means it’s been round about four months. Which means it could start anywhere between tomorrow and the second coming of Jesus for all Dean knows. No rhyme or reason to this shit.

Maybe if this job at the bakery pans out and he actually gets to settle in here for a while, he can finally get himself some proper suppressants. It’d make it easier to blend in with his scent muted, and it’s a solid bet that it’d even out his heats somewhat.

First things first though. Gotta actually start the job before you can start making plans for what you’re gonna do with the money.

Dean dresses in yesterday’s clothes and heads to the gas station for a cup of coffee. He’s awake anyway. Might as well do something useful.

~*~

Four hours, two hideous cups of coffee, and a whole lot of cursing at the shitty WiFi signal he’s piggybacking on from god only knows where, and Dean knows a hell of a lot more about baking than he ever expected to know. He’s learned a whole bunch of fancy French words like mise en place and chiffonade, he knows the difference between whipped cream and Chantilly cream, and he’s about 98% sure he’d fuck it right up if he tried to make one but he understands the basic concept of a meringue. Benny said he didn’t want someone who came in thinking they already knew more about baking than he did, so he’s not looking to master anything in the weekend between what passed for an interview and his training day, but hell if he’s gonna walk in there looking like a fucking idiot. He doesn’t want Benny to have to explain every single word out of his mouth.

Unfortunately, all this reading about pie and cake and cookies and meringues and donuts and frosting has made him incredibly hungry and breakfast pie seems like about the best idea on earth. He’s been up since an ungodly hour of the day but at his computer long enough that he figures Lafitte’s is probably open for business by now, so he heads back out the door with a rumble in his belly.

The neon sign outside of Lafitte’s is illuminated, and unlike the last time he was here, there’s a moderate bustle of activity inside. A few customers sit at the wrought iron tables snacking on their treats, and there’s a couple people waiting in front of the glass display case to make their purchases. Dean joins the line and stuffs his hands in his pockets as a guy in an ill-fitting trench coat makes his requests to Benny. The burly baker flits around behind the counter filling a white cardboard box with the man’s items, and smiles warmly when he hands it off. The customer turns around to go after paying and Dean’s not trying to stare but their eyes meet anyway. It’s probably the fact that he’s staggeringly gorgeous that makes Dean pause a moment before breaking eye contact and looking away. It’s probably the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting even though it’s nine in the morning. It’s probably the way his tie is crooked and backward, the way his hair looks like he just got in a fight with a windstorm and lost, the way his bright eyes peek out from under a furrowed brow that make Dean too curious to do what he knows he should.

Dean tries to avoid making too much eye contact with strangers. He tries to avoid notice. He tries to skate by unseen as much as possible. He avoids places he’s going to be jammed in too tight with a bunch of other people, or places where it’s hard to make an exit, places he doesn’t feel safe. A lot of people would say that’s absurd. A lot of people say there’s no reason for it. Dean doesn’t agree with them though. He knows exactly why.

_This_ is why.

He can see the exact second the alpha in the tan trench coat catches his scent. His pupils dilate just the slightest bit, and his nostrils flare, and he sniffs the air like he’s triangulating the source of it. It’s hard to make yourself look small when you’re over six feet tall and as muscular as Dean is but he tries anyway, shrinking in on himself in a desperate attempt to avoid notice. Any ugly altercation he could end up having with an alpha who doesn’t realize how unwelcome his attentions are is going to make Benny question his decision to hire Dean, he’s sure of it, and that’s the absolute last thing he needs right now. He’s ready to puff himself up, ready to get defensive if necessary, but the thing he’s afraid of never comes.

The alpha looks right at him, a friendly and totally nonthreatening smile on his face, nods his head as if to say _good day_ and walks out of the store.

Dean is baffled.

There was no leering. Not even a growl. Nothing at all _alpha_ about the alpha’s behavior. But he smelled it as sure as the alpha smelled him.

It’s a pleasant surprise, that’s for damn sure, but a surprise nonetheless, and it’s got Dean a little out of sort so he doesn’t quite notice right away when the customer in front of him leaves and it’s his turn. When he catches himself, Benny is smiling at him from behind the counter, arms crossed over his chef’s jacket.

“Didn’t expect to see you in here quite so soon,” he says fondly.

“Felt like a pie for breakfast kind of day,” Dean says in reply.

“Say no more,” Benny tells him cheerfully. Dean doesn’t know how he does it, getting up at the ass crack of dawn to bake and then still being nice to people when the shop opens afterwards. Guess he’s gonna find out though.

Benny hands him a box that’s far too large to hold a single slice of pie, and Dean eyes him questioningly.

“Consider it homework. An assortment of my favourites. You come in on Monday with your honest opinions about what’s in that box.”

Dean grimaces. He’s no charity case. Sure, he’s _almost_ at that point, but not yet. It puts his hackles up to be getting something for nothing. Even when he hustles pool, that’s fair and square. They bet that money, and they made a bad bet. This, it feels like taking advantage of Benny’s kindness. “You gotta let me pay you for this, man,” he insists.

“An investment,” Benny says sternly, and he’s on to the next customer before Dean has a chance to protest further. So Dean takes his ill-gotten pastries back to his seedy motel room, and has the sweetest breakfast of his life.


	3. Run and Hide

Sam left for college the second he was able. Didn’t even wait until the end of summer, when most kids strike out on their own for the first time. He’d barely ditched the cap and gown after graduation when he abruptly announced his impending departure, and it was pretty obvious he’d been planning it for a while. Dean doesn’t know how he managed to arrange a job, an apartment, and transportation out to California without either himself or John finding out, but he was too angry to be impressed at the planning that must have gone into it.

Sam was gone a couple of days after that. He never looked back.

Dean doesn’t blame him for leaving. Never did. How could he, when getting out from under the old man’s thumb was all Dean ever thought about? But the thing is, Dean would have been gone years before if he didn’t think that having him around was the only thing that kept Sam from taking punches on the regular. John would come home drunk, or hell, he’d start out drunk at home, and inevitably there’d be a fight because John was a mean drunk at the best of times and more so when one of his boys suddenly showed some spine. And Sam? Well, Sam should have been the golden child, with his straight A grades and the fact that Dean still hadn’t presented at the time, but Sam was also just as likely to hit back as he was to try to get out of the way. From where Dean stood, that was a sure-fire way to see things escalate, and it didn’t take a crystal ball to see a future in which that landed Sam in the hospital or worse. So Dean just took to making sure he was in the line of fire when it came to blows. Didn’t matter who John was mad at as long as he had a punching bag.

Dean didn’t like doing it, obviously. No kid in their right mind feels good when they’re bleeding from a split lip and hiding bruises under their gym clothes at school. But if he couldn’t stop it from happening, at least he could stop it from happening to Sammy.

_Make yourself useful,_ John always said.

So he did.

What Dean does blame Sam for is not telling him he was going. If he knew, Dean could have helped.  Hell, he’d have got his hands on a car and driven Sam out west himself, and very pointedly never come back. Only the thing is, since he didn’t bother, Dean was left standing in the rubble while Sam drove off into the sunset, and Dean’s not sure Sam ever took into account what kind of fallout he’d leave in his wake that day. Dean saw it coming, but by the time he knew Sam was leaving, it was too late to make his own escape plan in time to avoid it.

John nearly put him in the hospital that weekend.  Hell, he probably should have been in the hospital, only Dean’s always been too stubborn to do anything other than lock himself away and tend to his wounds in private, so without any kind of voice of reason there to tell him otherwise, that’s exactly what he did. And as soon as the black eye faded, he made his plans. He got a lead on a job he could get paid for under the table, snuck out while John was passed out drunk, and never looked back.

That was seven years ago, and Dean has only been back to Lawrence once, for a single day. He wouldn’t have gone back at all, only as next of kin there were things he apparently had to sign, and the Impala was sitting there waiting to be claimed or sold. If it weren’t for that car, he’d have tried to find a way out of going back to sign off.

Something shifted when John died. Dean didn’t miss him, that’s for sure. They hadn’t spoken a single word since Dean left. Hell, he wasn’t even sure John had tried to find him, and he’d been parked in the same place three towns over from Lawrence since the day he walked out so it’s not like it would have been all that hard. Dean stayed there for four whole years after he finally made his escape, working wherever he could and keeping his head down to avoid notice, but in the back of his mind there was always this fear that he’d have to go back for some reason. Sam would leave school, he figured, and have nowhere else to go and Dean would have to go back to keep him safe. Or something, he didn’t know what, but something he couldn’t avoid. He’s not sure why he ever though Sam would leave, since he loved school, and he was obviously never in danger of being kicked out, but the fear was always there. He just knew he had to be close enough that he could get back if he was needed.

If there was a way for him to be useful.

And then he got the call that John was gone. It came from Sammy, of course, because if John didn’t know where he was then nobody else in Lawrence would either. He and Sam still weren’t speaking at that point but Sam knew where he was, just in case. Always just in case. And when he went back to get the car it was always his intention to come home, if he could even call the sparse and impersonal apartment he stayed in home, but that isn’t what happened. Instead, he packed a bag, picked a compass direction, and just kept driving.

Sometimes Dean wishes he’d done something different. He doesn’t know what, but something. If he’d carved out a place for himself somewhere, he probably wouldn’t have run into half the bullshit he’d dealt with since leaving Kansas. But there’s that damned free will again, giving Dean a length of rope and watching what he does with it. The thought never crossed his mind. He’d just felt so tied down, so stuck, the whole time he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.The freedom of actually feeling like he could leave was so intoxicating that he let himself get drunk on it. By the time he came back down he’d bounced through enough temporary situations it was just easier to keep going than try to go back.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders how Sam is doing. They talk now, some. Not on the regular, not like they’re close, but enough. Enough that Dean knows Sam will be graduating from law school this spring. Enough that Dean totally understands why he’s so busy that he barely calls. It’s not strained like it used to be though. Not like before John died. They barely spoke during those four years, and more often than not the calls ended with one or both of them saying something they didn’t mean, or worse, something they did. They both come by that honestly. John said plenty of things he meant but shouldn’t have said when he was drinking—and sometimes even without the excuse of alcohol.

You’d think that’d be enough to keep Dean from drinking much himself, but no. Not as much as John did, but more than is probably healthy. The thing is, he’s gotta sleep sometime, and there are some nights where booze is the only way to get there, and even when he’s awake, there are things he’d just rather not think about. Tomorrow is Monday though, first day at the new job, so tonight it’s just one or two, and cold pizza because this shitty motel room has a somewhat functional fridge but no other amenities. If things go well with Benny maybe he can go hog wild and buy a hot plate or a low end microwave or something.

Just before he goes to bed, Dean thinks about calling Sam, but decides against it. He doesn’t have anything good to talk about yet anyway.

~*~

Not wanting to run the risk of showing up late on his first day, Dean’s out the door by 7:30, and leaning against the side of the building a good twenty minutes before Benny walks up. He’s wearing the same blue coat he had on the other day, and he’s carrying two coffees.

“Here,” Benny says, handing them both to Dean so he can dig keys out of his pocket. He unlocks the store, disarms the alarm, and then turns back around to retrieve one of the coffees from Dean. “Didn’t know how you take it, so it’s black, but we got plenty of milk and sugar around here if you need to do anything to it.”

“Black’s perfect,” Dean replies. “Thanks.” He’s used to drinking absolute sludge from gas stations and 7-11 most of the time. Wherever Benny got this, it’s bound to be far and away the best coffee he’s had in months, so for once he won’t feel the need to mask it under all the trimmings.

Benny’s already heading behind the counter as he calls out to Dean. “Come on back to the office. I shoulda got your phone number before, so we’ll do that, and I’ll give you a tour before we start actually doin’ anything.” Dean follows him through to the office, which is really just more of a desk and a filing cabinet tucked into the corner than it is an actual room of any kind. It’s tidy, though, meticulously organized, and the computer is free of any kind of dust which in and of itself is a complete miracle considering how much flour must get thrown around only a few feet away. Benny takes the rolling chair at the desk and pulls out a notebook and a pen. Dean gives his number, stamping down the apprehension that prickles his spine at the thought of a near-stranger knowing how to get a hold of him.

“And where’re you living?” Benny asks. Dean pales.

“Robin Hood Motel,” he replies quietly, full of shame.

“Well shit,” Benny scoffs. “That place ain’t been torn down yet? I thought they condemned it years ago!”

“Still standing,” Dean assures him. “Not entirely sure about the condemned part though.”

Benny lets out a low whistle. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re starting you out workin’ here with no delay. That’s no place for a person to call home. I ain’t gonna make any promises, but let me ask a few people. I might be able to point you in the direction of something a bit more hospitable.”

“As long as the price is right, I’ll live pretty much anywhere.” Dean regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.

“That’s no way for a man to live,” Benny replies, a hint of sadness in his voice, but he lets the topic drop. “Hang your jacket up back here, and I’ll show you around. Then we can see if I can’t teach you a thing or two about makin’ pastries.”

~*~

Dean works with Benny for a full day, stopping for lunch and a couple of coffee breaks. He learns so, so much. Honestly at this point he’s not even sure he remembers all of it, and he knows for a fact that it barely scratches the surface of the things a person needs to know to work in a place like this, but it’s a start. With Benny standing over his shoulder, he managed to not entirely fuck up the treats he was working on. And lord, did he work. There is flour in his hair, pie crust caked under his fingernails, a smear of chocolate on his cheek that has long since dried, and a fat bead of sweat running down his spine under his chef’s jacket, and Dean is as happy as he can imagine himself being. Not proper happy, of course, because the weight of the entire world sits on his shoulders and he knows it will all be waiting when he steps back out of the kitchen and into the real world, but for now, he’s happy. It’s fleeting and almost fake, because he knows it can’t last, but it’s still the best damn feeling he’s had in a long-ass time.

“You at least got a fridge in that no-tell motel of yours?” Benny asks as they’re cleaning up for the day. Dean’s scrubbing bowls and cookie sheets and pie tins in the big industrial sink, because apparently a baker’s assistant is also a dishwasher. He isn’t about to complain, though. It’s satisfying, having a job where he can see the fruits of his labour, where at the end of a day he can identify the tangible result of his work.

“A small one,” Dean says. “That’s about it though.”

“So you don’t exactly get up to much cookin’ then.”

“Not so much. I’m real good at cold pizza these days.”

Benny shakes his head. “Gotta get yourself a place with an actual kitchen.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean concedes. “Seemed smart to land a job first though, you know?” This would be an excellent opportunity to transition into asking how Benny thinks he did. Does he have the job, or is he still searching? But Dean hesitates, anxious about the possibility of a no. He didn’t fuck up too badly, he doesn’t think. He can’t have. He wasn’t unsupervised long enough to make any big mistakes. And Benny is a great teacher. While Dean is hesitating though, the moment passes, and then it doesn’t seem like an excellent opportunity anymore. He plunges his hands back into the soapy water and scrubs yet another mixing bowl. Soon, he’s rinsing the last dish, and the dishrack is full of clean ones, evidence of a hard day’s work.

“Hang tight in the office a couple minutes, okay?” Benny says, walking out of Dean’s field of view without waiting for a response. Dean shrugs out of his borrowed chef’s jacket with a weary sigh, hanging the coat up on the rack Benny got it from, and sinks into the lone chair. Benny’s only gone a few minutes, but it’s long enough for Dean’s brain to start ripping the day to shreds and imagining all manner of mistakes he made and didn’t notice, things he said that Benny didn’t find quite as funny as Dean did, ways in which he could have been better at his job. And he spilled some things, and his croissants were hideously misshapen.

He was feeling pretty good about the day’s work, but in retrospect, it’s pretty obvious he fucked it up. He needs a job, needs _any_ job at this point, but he kinda wants this one, and in Dean’s experience, that’s usually a good indication that the universe is going to try its damnedest to cheat him out of it somehow. He doesn’t get to have good things, or if he does, it’s for just long enough to realize how good they are before he loses them. Dean’s nearly convinced himself it’s a lost cause by the time Benny returns. He’s certain Benny’s going to come back with something in the way of a single day’s pay and an apology for getting his hopes up (despite the fact that it’s pretty obvious any sort of cheque or cash type transaction would probably have occurred in the office), but instead he comes back with a bakery box in his hands.

“You ain’t got a microwave or nothin’, so you’d better hurry home and eat this while it’s still hot,” Benny says, handing Dean the box. Inside, there’s two grilled cheese sandwiches and a massive slice of apple pie. “You think you can drag yourself out of bed and be here for four am?”

“Tomorrow?” Dean asks, confused.

Benny laughs, deep and throaty. “Most days,” he says, grinning.

“You mean, I got the job?”

“Shit, are you kidding me? I never seen anyone take to a kitchen like you did today. I’d be an idiot not to get you on my payroll, and Benjamin Lafitte is a lot of things, but he ain’t an idiot.” Dean stares at him, dumbfounded. “You didn’t think I was just yankin’ your chain when I told you how well you were doing, did you?”

Dean snaps himself out of the stupor with a shake. “Guess I’m just not used to things going my way,” he admits.

“Well, get used to it, kid. You got someplace worth being now. Time to make room for some good things.”

“Thanks, Benny,” Dean replies with a grin, clutching his dinner close. “See you at the ass-crack of dawn, I guess?”

“Bright and early,” Benny fires back.

~*~

Back in the dingy motel room with the water stain on the ceiling and the lumpy bed and the shower that never quite gets hot enough, Dean eats a hot meal that isn’t delivery pizza for the first time since arriving in town. The cheese is gooey and stringy, the bread perfectly toasted and crispy, and he eats every flaky morsel of pie even though he’s pretty full. It’d be rude not to appreciate what Benny sent him home with, right? Totally rude.

Just before he climbs into bed he thinks about calling Sam again, but it doesn’t seem like a big enough deal to disrupt his studies with. Later, when the job is secure and he’s getting paid. When he has something to say other than _I’m digging upwards for a change_.

When he’s got something to be proud of.

 


	4. Friendly Neighborhood Somethingrather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been posted like 2 hours ago if my laptop hadn't forced me to update and restart. Eat a dick, Windows 10.

The thing about waking up to go to work at a godawful early hour of the day is that you need to be in bed at an equally horrifying hour of the evening in order to get anything even resembling a decent night’s sleep. This is not a lesson Dean has had occasion to learn before now, but when the alarm on his phone goes off at three fifteen, he curses himself up one side and back down the other for not going to bed earlier. Then he drags himself out of his uncomfortable bed, throws on the first shirt he can find, and stumbles to the bathroom to take a piss.

Dean’s face, when he catches a glimpse in the bathroom mirror, looks just as tired as he expected it to. It’s not just the hour of the day that’s doing it either. One lousy night’s sleep isn’t enough to put those bags under his eyes. No, he’s been tired for a long time now, tired in a way that has its hooks in him. He’ll need more than a proper bed and a good cup of coffee to get past what wears him out. Dean washes his hands, splashes cold water on his face, and brushes his teeth. He doesn’t bother to spend the time shaving. He’s been told he looks better with a bit of stubble anyway, and he does not trust himself with a blade near his throat when he’s this sleepy.

Benny is waiting for him at the door to the bakery this time, a pair of coffees in hand again. He hands one to Dean without explanation, and Dean gets the distinct idea that he made a point of remembering how he took his coffee the previous day. Dean doesn’t know what to do with all this kindness from someone who isn’t looking for something in return. In his experience, there’s a hook, something to watch out for, something hiding behind it, and he’s got no reason to believe that’s the case with Benny so the instinct to distrust is kind of unwelcome but unshakeable all the same. He thanks Benny for the coffee with a weary smile.

“You don’t look like you got much sleep,” Benny says.

“Don’t quite have the hang of this morning thing yet,” Dean replies with a sheepish smile. “Probably doesn’t help that I’m sleeping on the worst mattress in history.”

Benny just laughs. “True. Alright brother, doors open at seven, so we best get started. Get the ovens on and we’ll put in some of those loaves we put in the proofer last night, and then we’ll move on to the fun stuff.”

“Yes sir,” Dean replies automatically, then corrects himself. “I mean Benny. Definitely not sir.”

“Close one,” Benny says, throwing him a chef’s jacket. Dean puts it on over his tee shirt, takes a big gulp of coffee, and gets to work.

~*~

If the first day of working the early shift at the bakery was a rude awakening in the most literal sense, it at least served to drive home the point of how truly early the early shift actually is. Dean learns his lesson after that and crawls into bed early enough that 3 am only seems like a slap on the wrist instead of a full on punch to the gut. It gets easier after that, little by little. Not comfortable. Not less unpleasant. But familiar and much less shocking, and he figures that’s about the most he can ask for at this point. He’s got a job, he’s got a roof over his head, and the vague idea of swapping that roof out for one without weird stains in the near future dangling in front of him, and for the first time in years, he’s doing something he doesn’t hate.

Any day above ground is a good day, Dean’s been told, but the days since he started working at Lafitte’s are better still.

It’s about a week after he starts working there that Benny starts training him on the front of house stuff, which means that instead of hiding out in the kitchen baking and doing dishes all day, he ends up hanging out at the register, keeping the display cases stocked and helping customers.

He doesn’t like it.

Not that he’s opposed to the work, not really, but it puts him in close proximity with a whole lot of people, and any one of them could catch a whiff of his scent. All he needs is one bad run in with a pushy alpha to give Benny a reason not to keep him around, and then he’s back where he started.

He doesn’t say any of this, of course. He flashes his most charismatic grin and tells Benny he’s down to learn whatever Benny needs him to learn, but it’s still there.

Working the register isn’t hard. It’s an incredibly simple machine, cash and credit only, and he gets the hang of it pretty quickly. Once he’s used to the work, the only hurdle to get over is that thing where he has to talk to strangers all the time.

Benny has quite a few regular customers. Dean starts to recognize some of their faces after the first little while, although he doesn’t know any of them by name. It’s weird, recognizing faces. Dean’s not used to being anywhere long enough to know any faces that aren’t people he actually knows. When you stay in one place long enough, even the strangers start to look familiar. He’s not sure if it’s the wanderlust making his skin itch, or just the fact that he’s sweating under his chef’s jacket.

There are also other employees. It makes sense, and Dean doesn’t know why he didn’t assume that at first since there’s no way Benny could have been running this entire bakery all by himself until Dean showed up. He’s got a couple of bakers who do early shift with them a few days a week when they have bigger batches of stuff. They do extra donuts on Friday and Saturday, and cinnamon rolls on Sunday, and various other things as the mood strikes. Benny likes to make it up as he goes along to a certain extend. Dean doesn’t know shit about business but if you asked him he’d tell you that doesn’t sound like a good sales plan, but Lafitte’s seems to be doing just fine. In addition to the other bakers, there are a couple of part timers that work the register in the afternoon after Dean goes home. Dean knows them by face but not by name, just like the customers he recognizes. He’ll have to break the ice eventually, have to let someone recognize him, but he’s treading carefully. It’s habit as much as anything else. They seem like nice folks. Hasn’t caught a whiff of alpha on any of ‘em, at least, and nobody’s looked at him sideways when he’s been paying enough attention to notice. That’s as good a start as any.

Dean finishes restocking the danishes, a row of cherry and a row of cheese, and wipes the crumbs off the counter beside his register. It’s neat and clean and tidy, everything organized and just so, and it’s such an odd sensation to feel satisfied at that but damnit, he does. His shift ends in ten minutes, not that he’s watching the clock or anything. Quite the opposite. Surprisingly, he’s enjoying being here. Maybe it’s just that it’s decidedly _not_ the rundown motel room he calls home, but it’s somewhere he likes being, somewhere that is comfortable and smells good and gives him something to do that he doesn't hate doing. He whistles while he works sometimes. It’s usually Metallica or Zeppelin, but it’s still whistling. And it’s not like he’s got anywhere better to be, so he’s definitely not in a rush to get out the door at the end of the day. In short, it’s a whole lot better than he thought he’d have when he first rolled in to town.

Doesn’t stop Dean from looking the gift horse directly in the mouth though.

It probably says something about his outlook on life in general that at this point, he’s still expecting this to turn sour. Everything always seems to go ass over teakettle in Dean’s life. He knows that luck isn’t real, that there is no cosmic force making decisions about what is going to happen to him, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that things are going to get yanked out from under him when things always get yanked out from under him. He keeps his head down, works hard, and tries not to give Benny any reasons to regret taking him on, and if he were a praying man, he’d be praying it’s enough.

Right as his shift ends and the part timer who is taking over for him walks behind the counter, still tying her apron, Benny calls Dean back into the office, and he almost starts those prayers for real. His mind starts searching frantically for something he did or didn’t do that could be reason for Benny to be letting him go, but he can’t find anything that seems bad enough. Oh sure, he’s screwed up. But nothing terrible. Nothing he thought was terrible, anyway, and he tends to be his own worst critic, so that’s gotta count for something, right? That’s what he keeps reminding himself as he hangs up his chef’s jacket and meets Benny in the little corner that serves as the office.

“Hey Benny,” Dean says, trying to keep his tone even and devoid of anxiety.

“Relax,” Benny says soothingly, proving just how effective that strategy was. “I just wanted to see how things are goin’.”

The tension eases in Dean’s shoulders. “Good. Real good. Feel like I’m getting the hang of it. Still can’t quite get the hang of the puff pastry stuff though.”

“It’ll come,” Benny assures him. “You’ve only been working at it a couple weeks. Nobody’s expecting you to master it overnight.” That’s about the most reassuring thing Benny could say right now. There’s something about it that says there will be a place here for Dean while he learns. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, I know you said you bounced around a lot and things have been rough. I don’t wanna pry, but it sounds like you might have had some unorthodox dealings in the past.”

Dean draws a deep breath. He should have known this was coming eventually. “You could say that,” he offers carefully, not wanting to invite more suspicion than he’s already got.

“I only ask because, well, its payday, but I didn’t want to write you a check if you ain’t got a bank account you can deposit it in.”

Dean almost laughs. “Oh. Yeah. For sure. I have a bank account.”

“Okay good. I didn’t mean anything sketchy by it, I just didn’t wanna make things difficult for you.”

“No it’s cool,” Dean assures him. “Fair question. I didn’t exactly tell you much except it hasn’t been good.”

“And I ain’t askin’ you to. Don’t stress about it. You wanna put down roots here, I’m definitely down to help you do that. If that means keepin’ some secrets, well, we all got secrets. Just let me know if any of your worries need to become any of mine, otherwise, you bake a mean croissant and you’re an alright guy. We’re good.”

“Thanks Benny,” Dean says, meaning it as honestly as he ever has. He takes the check when Benny hands it to him, not even looking at the figure until he’s outside the bakery. He’s not expecting much more than minimum wage, although it occurs to him that they really should have talked about that in advance, but Dean’s never been one for foresight. Anyway, he came in here knowing nothing at all about baking and less than that about customer service, so it’s not like he had a strong negotiating position. When he looks at what Benny handed him, though, he’s more than pleasantly surprised. It’ll cover a couple more weeks at the motel and better food than he’s been eating, plus a bit to squirrel away in case things take a rough turn real fast.

He was planning on heading back to the motel for a late afternoon nap, but Dean corrects course and heads towards a slightly better part of town to find a bank. He might actually eat something other than cold pizza tonight.

~*~

Despite the fact that he’s more flush with cash than he’s been at any point in recent years, Dean doesn’t have to battle too hard with himself to remember to be frugal. He’s been subsistence level living for so long that hoarding his resources like a particularly miserly dragon is second nature at this point. As soon as he gets back to the motel he prepays for another two weeks in his room (even though it’s horrible and he hates it), and then unpacks his purchases with barely contained glee. He didn’t buy much, but all of it was justifiable and reasonable. He knows this. Still, after food and some cooking supplies, and a bit of a splurge on socks that don’t have holes in them, he’s got a decent stash of rainy day money left in case he has to make a quick break, in case things here turn south real fast, in case everything keeps crumbling down.

Dean wonders if there will ever come a day when his savings are building towards something desirable instead of just safeguarding him against catastrophe.

He’d gone out looking for a hotplate, but found something even better. Rather than the weathered thing he remembers from the kitchen at home, the one mom used to bring out sometimes but his father never used after she died, Dean found something called an inversion cooktop. It cost a tiny bit more than he was planning to spend, but instead of just warming things to slightly more than room temperature and posing a fire hazard, it actually gets hot enough to make food, you know, hot. He sets the thing on the counter beside the sink and puts his new frying pan on top of it, then sets about unpacking the food he brought back with him. Not home, just back. Dean hesitates to call it home, because it’s not, because it will never be. He stays here, but he doesn’t like it or feel a connection. It doesn’t do anything for him besides provide a dry place to sleep. It’s just a room.

Dean makes himself a steak, not a fancy one but still satisfying, and eats it in front of the television. Local news drones on but he doesn’t really pay attention, already starting to feel the exhaustion of an early morning setting in even as he eats. Tomorrow will be early as well, and the next day, but then he gets two off, and he’s probably going to do nothing but sleep the entire time.

It’s barely dark by the time he starts puttering around getting ready for bed. There’s not much to do; nothing to clean, nothing to put away because he doesn’t own things and there’s nowhere away to put things here anyway. But he showers and shaves so he doesn’t have to bother in the morning, noting that the face in the mirror doesn’t seem to be getting any less tired now that he’s not running but at least he’s not getting any _more_ tired. Once that’s all settled Dean finds himself cloaked in an unfamiliar kind of calm, something not quite the same as happiness but bordering on it. Contentment, he thinks. This room isn’t home and this town isn’t his and the people here don’t know him yet (not that he’s sure he wants them to), but the little corner he’s beginning to carve out feels like somewhere he could hunker down and settle in and stay. Benny makes him welcome. The other bakery staff at least don’t make him unwelcome. He’s got both feet on the ground for what feels like the first time in forever.

It’s almost unsettling.

Riding the wave of that feeling, Dean picks up his phone and scrolls through the contacts until he finds Sam’s name. He lets his finger hover over the send button for just a heartbeat shy of too long, almost long enough that he talks himself out of it. But things are good, things are as good as they’ve ever been, and if at any point in his life Dean has had something worth reporting to the little brother who got out of their prison of a home and made something of himself, this would be the time.

It rings.

It rings again.

It keeps ringing.

Dean doesn’t bother leaving a voicemail.

~*~

John is in the church this time. Again, Dean knows it for a dream immediately, but that doesn’t change it, doesn’t give him power. His feet walk forward though he tries to stop them, his hands grip the edges of the dais even though he doesn’t want to, and whether he thinks about looking at the words on the page or not they spring to his mind unbidden like a wound bursting open under tension, letting old blood flow forth anew. John sits in the third row of pews towards the aisle and he stares at Dean like he’s the only thing in the room. His eyes are cold and hard, his mouth set in a tight line like it’s taking physical restraint to avoid hurling the words contained within. Dean waits for them to come flying out anyway like they always do, the accusations and the insults and the cruelty, but for once, there is only silence.

There should be noise regardless. The church is full of imaginary people. Dean read once that you cannot imagine faces, that your brain doesn’t have the ability to fabricate the features and that any face you see in a dream is one that you’ve seen somewhere in the waking world (although perhaps not one attached to the identity your mind has given it). Dean doesn’t recognize any of the faces in the church. He must have seen them somewhere, but he sees so many faces, and he never stops long enough to know more than a handful of them, so that shouldn’t be surprising but it is. The silence is deafening. Dean could ignore John’s silence if there was a din of voices filling the room but there are not. They’re like a tableau, plastic people filling space but not doing anything with it, leaving Dean with nothing to focus on except the words he cannot read and the words that John doesn’t say.

When Dean’s alarm goes off, he knows he’s slept through the night, but he doesn’t exactly feel rested. Go figure.

When he gets home from work that day, exhausted from his day at the bakery but also in a mental way, owing to the restless sleep and the dream and his life in general, all he’s thinking about doing is falling into bed. It doesn’t even matter that the mattress is lumpy and the room smells weird and he hates it. He just needs to go to sleep. The afternoon sun is still high, but it might as well be midnight for all Dean cares.

He’s so dazed from exhaustion that he doesn’t see the new arrival in the parking lot until he smells it, a scent that hits him like a punch to the gut as much from its strength as from its composition. Leaning against a car parked three spots away from Dean is a man who could never be mistaken for anything but pure alpha, and there is absolutely no question as to whether he’s caught Dean’s scent. The man, built like a brick shithouse and looking decidedly mean, sniffs the air in the most performative way possible and slowly rotates his head in Dean’s direction, eyes narrowing as he stares. Dean wants to run. What the hell, he probably already smells like fear, right? But he forces himself to project as much confidence as he can muster, keeping his pace measured as he approaches his door. The alpha’s eyes weigh heavy on his back the whole way, and he knows the creep is making a point to remember what room Dean goes into, but there are no footsteps following him. The rhythmic thudding he can hear is just the hammering of his own heart.

Dean hates living like this. He hates the fear. He knows that not every single alpha is a brainless knothead, unwilling or unable to resist their baser urges. He knows not every single alpha he meets is looking for an opportunity to assault him or mate him or hurt him. But there have been enough incidents where he’s barely escaped unharmed, enough words hurled his way that hurt almost as much as the violence they promise, that it’s hard to make a distinction anymore. Any alpha he meets could be the one that hurts him next. Any alpha he meets could be the worst one yet.

Suddenly, the walls of this dingy motel room seem much closer, the smells that much stronger. It was never a home, but right now, it feels like a prison.

~*~

It’s gotta be a coincidence of timing, Dean knows that, but it still makes his skin crawl when he gets home from work the next day and that goddamned alpha is leaned up against the same car, smoking a cigarette that does nothing to mask the smell of him, watching Dean with hard eyes and undisguised interest. Even if Dean was looking for a mate, which he is definitely not, this guy wouldn’t check any of his boxes, but the way he’s staring gives Dean the distinct impression that he isn’t particularly concerned with that. Not for the first time, Dean curses himself for not taking John’s mother-of-pearl-handled pistol when they cleaned out the old place. He doubts he’d ever use it if push came to shove, but having something to put him more on equal footing with his would-be admirer would make him sleep a lot better. Or at least, only as poorly as he did before this ugly fuck moved into the motel.

He should be thinking about moving. Not out of town, of course. Not yet. But out of this motel. The job at Lafitte’s is a pretty secure thing unless Benny has the best poker face in the game, and Dean did say he wanted to put down some roots. But it’s not like he’s got the cash for a damage deposit yet, and hell, he doesn’t own any furniture so even if he does find a place he’ll just be sleeping on the floor in an empty apartment. And buying furniture means committing to those roots, ‘cause it’s not like he can just strap a couch to the roof of the Impala and haul ass out of town if he decides he needs to move on.

Thankfully, the alpha is gone when Dean heads out to grab beer and a few groceries later, but he’s not so optimistic as to think it’s the last time he’ll feel the weight of those eyes on him.

~*~

Dean would hate to admit it, but he kinda likes working the register at the bakery. People are mostly nice when they come in, and even nicer when they leave owing to the fact that they tend to have something sweet to take with them. Sometimes they ask for recommendations and then he gets to talk about his favorite things the bakery makes. There’s an element of social interaction there he hadn’t realized he was missing with the way he’s been living his life for the past couple of years. It’s not real interaction of course because they don’t actually talk about anything except tart fillings and sausage rolls but he’s talking to people and not a single one has given off that predatory smell that sends him into instant panic.

Benny seems to sense that it’s working for him. Slowly but surely, Dean starts finding himself moved out of the kitchen and up to the register earlier and earlier in the day. At first it wasn’t until around ten am, when the shift was mostly over and everything was baked and the dishes were done, but as he got more confident in the work and in himself, it crept up to the point where now he’s the one who unlocks the door when they open and serves customers for just under half his shift.

This, of course, means that when the incredibly attractive alpha in the ill-fitting trench coat comes in, Dean has nowhere to run.

They lock eyes almost immediately when the bell on the door jangles and draws Dean’s attention upwards. He’s just as gorgeous as Dean thought the first time, his hair a dishevelled mess, the strength of his muscular body not entirely disguised by the coat that’s probably two sizes too big. He smiles as he approaches the counter, nothing predatory, just a friendly grin that makes his eyes twinkle. But he smells alpha, and the scent of it fills Dean’s nose until he can’t scent the apples and the cinnamon and the sugar and the pastry anymore. All he can smell is alpha.

For his part, the alpha doesn’t seem to respond at all. When he gets to the counter, Dean is close enough to see the slight flare to his nostrils as he instinctively takes in Dean’s scent, the way his eyes darken just a little. Nobody can completely ignore the response to pheromones. But if Dean didn’t know to look for those signs, he’d never know the alpha had scented him at all. Nothing in his demeanor changes in the slightest. Dean forces himself to smile because alpha or not, he’s a customer and Dean will be damned if he’s gonna let biology cost him this job.

“Morning,” he says a little woodenly. “What can I get for you?”

“Can I get two dozen donuts please?” The alpha replies with a smile that is much softer than it has any right to be. Dean reminds himself that this is a customer and also an alpha, you know, the guys he’s been terrified of since he first presented as omega, and that he should stop thinking about how attractive he is.

Dean fucking hates biology.

“Sure thing buddy. Any flavors you’re particular to?” They’ve got five today; glazed, chocolate dipped, apple fritter, strawberry jelly with powdered sugar, and Dean’s personal favourite, maple glazed with little bits of walnut on top. There are a few other kinds that they rotate through on a kind of but not really set in stone schedule. Sometimes it’s just whatever Benny feels like baking.

“Surprise me,” the replies. Dean shrugs and grabs a box, starts filling it with donuts at random. “You haven’t been working here all that long, have you?”

It’s a testament to how well Dean is adjusting to this role, to being around this many strangers, to the exposure to strange alphas, that he doesn’t freeze at the question. It’s always unsettling when an alpha takes interest in him and it’s bad enough that he’s got one lingering at his stupid motel, but now he’s got one at work too? Why does everything have to be so complicated? “Couple months,” he replies, focusing more on the donuts than anything else.

“You like it here?”

“Yeah it’s the best job I’ve had in a while. Benny’s a good boss. Still not used to the 3 am wake-up call though.” The alpha cringes at the mention of the early hour.

“I can see why that might put a damper on things.” He hands over cash, exact change even though Dean hasn’t told him the total yet. Must do a donut run on a somewhat regular basis. “Tell Benny I say hi, will you?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean says. “But I don’t exactly know who you are?”

The alpha laughs. “Good point. Tell Benny Castiel says hi.”

“You got it,” Dean replies as Castiel walks out the door with his donuts in hand. He started off feeling like the whole thing was weird and intrusive and creepy, but Castiel didn’t pry, didn’t ask anything personal. Didn’t even ask Dean’s name. Dean considers the possibility that this is one of those times where his instincts aren’t serving him well, but it’s all kind of irrelevant. Dean has no intention of interacting with Castiel or any other alpha that comes into the shop without the counter in between them.

He restocks the donuts and wipes down the counter and clears a couple of tables, then puts the entire conversation entirely out of his mind until Benny comes out from the back of the shop to tell him it’s time for a break. Dean’s about to walk into the office when he remembers to mention it.

“Castiel says hi,” is all he says, because that is literally all there is to say.

“Oh you met Cas, did you?” Benny says with a laugh. “Donuts for the office again?”

“Apparently, ‘cause he bought two dozen and I’m thinking he’s not a person who eats two dozen donuts by himself on a regular basis.”

“Yeah no doubt. Cas is a good guy. He comes in here a lot, so you’ll see him plenty.” There’s a bit of a pause while Benny seems to contemplate the implications of that. “And yeah, you smelled right, he’s alpha, but don’t worry. He’s not a threat to you or anyone else. You don’t gotta stress about Cas. He’s friendly and he’ll definitely chat if you give him the chance, but if you start feelin’ any kind of way about it just tell me and I’ll have a talk with him. He ain’t gonna try and hit on you or anything, but I know it ain’t always easy to tell someone they’re makin’ you uncomfortable when you can’t put a finger on the why.”

“Sure thing,” Dean tells him, then makes his way to the office where his lunch is waiting, along with a coffee he sorely needs. Sleep hasn’t been coming all that easy regardless of how tired he is ever since that creepy alpha moved into the motel. He tries not to think about how his first instinct was to vehemently deny the suggestion that Castiel might ever do anything to make him feel uncomfortable.

 


	5. Safehouse

The strange, ominous alpha newcomer is apparently smart enough to recognize simple patterns. Either that or the world has dealt Dean a big damn coincidence because after the first couple of weeks, where Dean sees him only sporadically as he’s coming home from work, it becomes significantly more regular. It’s twice the first week, and then three times the second, and by the third week he’s outside smoking a cigarette every single day when Dean gets home from work. He never interacts. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle except to raise the lit cigarette to his mouth, but his eyes are always a heavy weight on Dean’s back as he fumbles with the lock and lets himself into his rented box. Dean wonders if the lock is sturdy enough to keep the alpha out if things get messy. Probably not. Maybe it’ll be solid enough to give him time to escape out a window if things come to a head but he wouldn’t be willing to bet cash on that. So much for keeping a low profile. He’s already attracted the worst kind of attention, and he hasn’t even _done_ anything.

Dean thinks about changing his routine to evade the attention but decides against it. The alpha picked up on his pattern fast enough as it was, he’s likely to do the same if Dean shifts things. Besides, that would be about as good as plastering a sign on his back that announces he’s scared shitless, and he won’t give that fucker the satisfaction. Courage is not the absence of fear, he’s been told, but rather the mastery of it, and he’s man enough to admit when he’s afraid but that doesn’t mean he has to let it rule him.

It’s not always easy to believe that.

More often than not, he’s too tired when he gets home from work to go out again unless it’s absolutely necessary. He stops for food on his way more often than not and then holes himself up for the balance of the day. It’s not like he has a social life to draw him out from under the rock. It’s not like he has friends.

Benny tries.

“Come over for dinner some time,” he offers. Dean’s covered in flour to the elbows, rolling out his fifth batch of pie crust of the day. Its apple, blueberry, and pumpkin today, so he’s only gotta make top crusts for two-thirds of ‘em, but it’s still a lot of fucking crusts. “Andrea has been askin’ to meet you, and she makes a mean gumbo.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean tells him. “Sometime. Maybe after I’m a bit more settled in.”

It’s not a dismissal, but an evasion. He would like to be friendly with Benny, he thinks. Decent guy. But old habits die hard, and social engagements involve the tearing down of walls or at least minor attempts to pretend the walls aren’t there, and he thinks he might have lain the mortar on too thick to chip away at in the near future. He’s not sure he wants to. The walls are a fortress. They keep him safe. Benny just nods, doesn’t ask a follow up, and it’s weird because Dean hasn’t talked about any of this shit and likely never will, but he gets the feeling that Benny knows exactly what he means.

After work, he decides to take a pie home. He made enough of them that it’s been on his mind all day, and he hasn’t eaten pumpkin pie in what feels like years. So after he takes off his chef’s jacket and exchanges it for the leather he wore out the door, he adds himself to the back of the line at the register. One of Benny’s part-timers rings him up with an employee discount and puts the pie in a box, taping the flap closed and handing it over with a shy kind of smile. The girl can’t be older than 16, braces still prominent on her teeth, but she looks at Dean like he’s at once the most fascinating and terrifying thing she’s ever seen. He doesn’t get it. When he turns around to leave, his attention is on the pie box in his hands rather than where he’s going, so he almost walks right into Castiel before he notices and stops short.

“Uh, hi. Sorry,” Dean stammers out awkwardly. “I should watch where I’m going.” He attempts to sidestep Castiel to be on his way but Castiel sidesteps at the same time. Castiel attempts to dodge back the other direction to get out of Dean’s way but Dean moves back in mirror image. It’s the most awkward dance in history.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, chasing the words with a brief laugh. “I’ll stand still. You go.”

“Thanks, Castiel,” Dean replies. He offers up a tiny flash of a smile before ducking his head and making a beeline for the door, the heavy alpha scent of Castiel competing with the bakery smells to leave Dean feeling heady and intoxicated. The fresh air outside is a glorious relief. Dean breathes deeply, filling his lungs and chasing the scents away, and he doesn’t head for home until he’s shaken away the worst of it. Castiel smelled so strongly that Dean’s certain its clinging to his clothing, a cloud of alpha surrounding him. It can’t be, of course. That’s not how it works. But the memory of it follows Dean home all the same. It’s still on his mind when he gets to the motel and it’s distracting enough that he doesn’t even look at the creepy hulking alpha in the parking lot. He still feels the man’s eyes on him though, heavy and imposing.

~*~

Later that night, when he’s scrubbed and shaven and fed and relaxed, Dean finally gets Sam on the phone. He tries to keep the irritation out of his tone when he mentions how long it’s been since they talked, but its there. Sure, Dean didn’t leave a message last time he called, but Sam has call display. He would have known. He totally could have called back.

“Sorry,” Sam says to the accusation Dean doesn’t quite make. “I’m drowning in work right now. I meant to call you back.”

“I figured,” Dean replies. “It’s cool.” He’s still hurt, but Dean doesn’t let people know when they’ve hurt him because then they will know how to do it again, so he doesn’t say that.

“So you’re settled down for a while then?”

“I think so,” Dean tells him. “I want to be. Got a job at this bakery, it’s going pretty well so far.”

“You can bake?” Sam teases. It’s almost like the banter they had as kids.

“Learning. I’m getting pretty good at it. Benny’s a good boss, and hey, there’s always pie so that’s something.”

“That’s cool,” Sam says. A long pause. Dead air.

“So… how’ve you been?” Dean asks pointedly. Things have been strained even though they dealt with the worst of it, but he expected Sam to be a bit more present than this.

“Swamped,” he sighs. “I’m actually trying to work on some case studies right now. Jess is coming over later this evening to review for an exam and I still have so many readings to do.” He sounds tired.

“Who’s Jess?”

“She’s…she’s my girlfriend. I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before.”

“You didn’t,” Dean assures him.

“Oh. Yeah, we’ve been dating for a few months, she’s great. You’d really like her.” Dean doesn’t know how Sam can be so sure about that, because they’ve barely talked in the past couple of years so he can’t possibly know as much about Dean as he thinks he does. “I should really get back to studying though,” Sam says.

“Sure thing,” Dean tells him. “We’ll talk soon.”

“We will,” Sam promises.

Dean regrets calling.

~*~

Dean wakes up in a sweat, but he wasn’t having a nightmare so he’s unclear as to why. His entire body feels hot, clammy and gross, and even though he showered last night he still drags himself into the bathroom long enough to at least rinse off before dressing for work. It’s kinda pointless because he’s just going to be covered in flour and sugar and sweat as soon as he starts working. At least it gets rid of that sickly feeling. By the time he walks out the door he feels human again. It’s still confusing.

And he’s entirely correct in his prediction. Dean’s in the bakery for all of seven minutes before there’s sweat beading on his brow. The ovens seem particularly hot today. Still, he pushes through because he has to. He ducks his head and pushes up his sleeves and he works. Dean knows from experience the best cure for feeling like shit is to just keep going and do what you gotta do, and it’ll get better with time.

It doesn’t get better.

It gets worse. Much, much worse.

By the time Dean’s set to go on his lunch break, his shirt is soaked through with sweat and he’s starting to sweat through his chef’s jacket, making the fabric cling to his skin. It feels even worse than just the sweating alone. The fabric feels like its strangling him, restraining his limbs and making every movement take twice the effort, and his muscles ache like nothing else. Maybe he’s coming down with something. It would certainly explain the low-grade nausea that’s settled down and made a home for itself in his gut.

“Fuck,” Dean swears to himself. He can’t afford to get sick right now. He needs this job and every paid hour it can throw his way. He needs to keep exceeding Benny’s expectations. He doesn’t have time to get sick. So as much as Dean wants to crawl into bed and sleep for a week, as much as he wants to strip naked and lie on the cool tile floor until he stops sweating himself to death, Dean pulls his lunch out of the fridge and tries to make himself eat. The bread on his turkey and cheese sandwich sticks to the roof of his mouth, threatening to choke him as he swallows. It tastes like nothing. It tastes awful.

He eats it anyway.

Benny eyes him sideways when he comes back into the kitchen, clearly aware that Dean isn’t doing well. Dean aims to put his head down and just work through it. He doesn’t even get the chance.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting’ sick, Dean?” Benny asks, more compassion than disappointment. “You should be in bed restin’, not bustin’ your ass in here.”

“Can’t afford to be sick,” Dean argues.

“Can’t afford to have you here sick,” Benny counters. “Health regulations. Get on home before you fall down.” Dean sighs and takes his jacket off, cringing at the way his shirt sticks to his back. He doesn’t even feel like putting his own jacket back on but he knows the air outside is going to be cool enough to make him feel worse as he walks home. The leather feels too warm, too heavy, but he makes himself slide his arms into the sleeves and settle the jacket on his shoulders. The idea of walking back to the motel seems daunting, almost unattainable. Unfortunately, the Impala is still parked in front of his room right where he left her because the bakery is so close it always felt like a waste of gas to drive. He sure wishes he had today.

Benny is out in the café portion of the bakery when Dean emerges from the back room, chatting with Castiel of all people. Exactly what Dean needs right now. It’s undeniable that he finds the strange alpha attractive, but he’s also confused at the gaping chasm between his expectations and the way Castiel responds to him, or rather, doesn’t. He’s not sure he wants to figure out exactly what’s at work there. He’s exhausted and not at his best and really all he wants to do is go fall into bed now that he’s been kicked out of the bakery for the day, so he’s certainly not looking for any kind of conversation. Dean’s intention is to make a quick exit before Castiel can even notice that he’s there and it seems like he’s going to make it, but he can see the exact second that Castiel picks up his scent.

This time, he responds.

Every muscle in Castiel’s body goes tense all at once. Dean can tell, even with the ill-fitting trench coat shrouding his form. His head spins around to face Dean, his eyes wide, and before Dean can think on how exactly to process that, he’s face to face with a blue-eyed alpha.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean barks, unable and unwilling to keep the indignation out of his voice.

“Where are you going?” Castiel demands, ignoring Dean’s affronted question.

“Walking home,” Dean informs him with a sneer. “What’s it to you?”

“You can’t go out alone like that!”

“Like what? I’m sick,” Dean snaps, turning to leave. Castiel catches his arm.

“No,” Castiel snaps back. “You’re not. You’re going into _heat.”_

“The fuck I am,” Dean retorts. “I’ve got the flu.”

Castiel narrows his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose, pointedly inhaling Dean’s scent. “You’re going into heat,” he repeats calmly. “I can smell it on you, and so will every single alpha downwind of you for blocks.”

Dean is skeptical, and it must show on his face. It’s been a while since his last heat, but he’s sure it didn’t feel like this. He’s used to feeling hot, but not feverish. Starving, not nauseated. And he’s used to feeling arousal so fierce it borders on need, searing away all rational thought. Right now, he just feels sick. Dreadfully, painfully sick.

“What’s wrong?” Benny’s voice asks, and it’s only then that Dean even remembers he’s there.

“Your employee is going into heat,” Castiel answers for him. Dean’s about to countermand that answer, to deny it vehemently, but as he opens his mouth to speak he’s forestalled by the sensation of slick leaking out of him. There’s no denying it now, not when he’s leaking like this and he’s not even aroused. His face reddens in mortification and he drops his argument, but he’s still got to speak for himself.

“Which is why I need to leave now,” Dean interjects pointedly. “So I can go lock myself away until it passes. So if you don’t mind…” he trails off, gesturing to the door.

“You sure you can walk home like that, Dean?” Benny inquires carefully. He may be beta, but he clearly knows at least enough about an omega’s heat to understand how vulnerable Dean is right now.

“I gotta,” Dean replies instantly. He doesn’t need charity. He doesn’t need a babysitter. He just needs to be left alone to ride this out. Dean’s been dealing with his heats alone ever since the first one, when John looked at him like a fucking abomination and sent him to his room without the first hint of compassion. This one won’t be any different.

“At least let me give you a ride,” Castiel insists. “You’re in quite a state. It’s not really safe.”

Dean snorts out a laugh. “Yeah uh, no offense but I think the unsafe thing is getting into a car with an alpha I don’t know when I’m about to go into heat. Thanks but no thanks pal.” He turns to walk towards the door, but Benny stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Dean, I know this ain’t ideal, but I really think you should take Cas up on the ride. I’d drive you myself if I could. You don’t wanna be halfway home and alone when it comes on full force. You can trust Cas, I promise. I’d trust him with my life.”

“I don’t know Benny,” Dean sighs. “I know he’s your friend, but…” Dean trails off as a wave of nausea grips him, making his stomach roil. He regrets everything he’s ever eaten.

“But nothing,” Benny says firmly, a tone that Dean barely has the energy to consider defying. “Cas, if you would be so kind?”

“I got it,” Castiel assures Benny. He holds the door open for Dean, watching carefully to see how Dean fares on his own two feet. Dean sways a little but he declines Cas’ proffered arm to lean on.

Castiel leads him to an absolute beast of a car, a beige Continental that looks like its seen some better days. Dean hesitates at the door while Castiel unlocks it and opens it for him, but in the end he climbs in, rolling the window down so he’s not trapped in a steel box full of alpha scent the whole ride.

“Where do you live?” Castiel asks, both hands on the wheel. He looks at Dean expectantly.

“Robin Hood Motel,” Dean replies sullenly, arms crossed over his chest. He feels like he’s sweating out of his skin but at the same time he would murder a man for a blanket. The open window is necessary to dissipate the scents otherwise he’d close it immediately just to keep the heat from escaping, yet he’s still suffocating.

“Yikes,” Castiel mutters.

“What?” It’s impossible to smother the irritation in his voice, although to be fair, Dean wasn’t really trying.

“Not exactly the Ritz.”

“Oh sorry,” Dean snaps, “I didn’t realize I was on trial here. Last I checked, I didn’t actually ask you for a ride, it was forced on me, so could we do this without the judgement? I don’t like it there either, but it’s what I’ve got right now.”

Castiel cringes, which Dean only notices because he’s staring daggers in his general direction. “I’m sorry. I only meant that it’s probably not a particularly comfortable place to be staying. No judgement.”

“Whatever,” Dean replies.

They don’t exchange another word for the rest of the drive, which is rather brief being that they’re going somewhere Dean could have walked in about 15 minutes. Castiel pulls into a parking spot closer to the decrepit lobby than Dean’s room, and that’s when Dean spots his constant companion, the none too subtle alpha that likes to stare at him.

“Friend of yours?” Castiel asks, gesturing in the alpha’s direction.

“Hard no,” Dean replies. He wrenches the car door open and makes a beeline for the door of his room, barely noticing that Castiel is also out of the car and following him. Dean tenses as he passes the creeper alpha, trying to make himself look more confident than he feels. It doesn’t matter. His scent says everything.

“I didn’t know you had a mate,” the alpha drawls, his voice thick and rough and altogether unsettling.

“I don’t,” Dean snaps, not even looking over his shoulder as he keeps walking.

“Well then, lucky me. Maybe when your little friend here hits the highway, you and I can have a bit of fun. Smells like you’re gonna need some company for the next few days.”

“Pass,” Dean growls.

“You say that now, but listen sweetheart, it’s gonna be real lonely in there when your heat hits. I think you’re gonna be singing a different tune by the time I come round to visit later.”

“He said _no,_ ” Cas snaps, putting himself between Dean and the alpha, and for the first time, Dean is grateful for his presence. He doesn’t like being sent home under the charge of a veritable stranger and he likes it even less that the stranger is an alpha, but at least he’s got someone in his corner right now.

“Oh, I heard that just fine,” the alpha tells Cas smoothly. “But he ain’t your mate, and you ain’t stayin’, so I don’t see what business it is of yours. Soon as you take off, I feel like the two of us are going to get very well acquainted.” Dean keeps walking and Castiel follows, and the alpha stays leaned up against his car, but the mood lingers regardless. By the time Dean’s at his room and reaching for the door, his hands are shaking.

“Dean,” Castiel says carefully, his voice tight as a guitar string, “I don’t think this is somewhere you want to be right now.”

“Yeah well I don’t exactly have options.”

 “You can stay at my place,” Castiel offers.

Dean snorts. “That sounds like a great idea. Instead of staying at my own place where there’s an alpha I don’t know waiting to get me alone, I’ll go back to the home of an alpha I don’t know. That’s brilliant. I might as well take my chances here.” He sounds more confident than he feels though. Neither option sounds good.

“No Dean, not like that,” Castiel replies with exasperation. “I’ll drop you off with the keys and go to a motel for a few days. Just give me a few minutes to pack an overnight bag. It’ll be safer than your place.”

“I don’t like it,” Dean retorts sullenly. Last thing he needs is to indebt himself to someone. To anyone, but least of all to an alpha. “I’m not kicking you out of your place just ‘cause my body’s fucked up.”

“It’s not fucked up,” Castiel sighs. “You’re just—“

Dean cuts him off. “Not the best time for an omega body positivity pep-talk, friendo,” he snaps.

“Fine. You can take my room, I’ll sleep on the couch. There’s a lock on the knob, no deadbolt, but you can jam a chair under the door handle if you’re worried I might come in anyway. But if you can’t be here then you’ve got to go somewhere.”

Dean still doesn’t like it, but Castiel isn’t wrong. He’s kind of out of options. It’s fend for himself at the motel or take Castiel up on his offer, and hope that it’s either not a trap or that can keep his wits about him through the heat. He doesn’t want to do either, but he does have to make a choice.

There’s that fucking free will bullshit again.

“Fine,” Dean replies. He opens the door to his motel room with still-shaking hands and sets about throwing things in a duffle bag. Not much to pack. A change of clothes, tooth brush, charger for his phone. Castiel stands in the doorway awkwardly, hands jammed into the pockets of his hideous trench coat. He doesn’t say a word.

“When we get to my place, I’ll grab some of my own clothes out of the bedroom before you lock yourself in,” Castiel informs him once the car is moving. “You should call Benny and let him know the change in plans, too. He’ll probably want to come by and check up on you at some point. He’s like that.”

As much as Dean doesn’t know, like, or trust Castiel, that doesn’t exactly sound like something that someone who intended to hurt Dean would say, and it’s also good advice. He calls the bakery and informs Benny of the details.

“Rough,” Benny grumbles into the phone. “Glad you got that sorted out. I’ll drop by to see how you’re holding up this evening, okay? You just take care.”

He has no idea where Castiel lives, but apparently Benny does, so at least someone knows where he’s going to be. The whole thing still feels wrong. Maybe that’s just the heat hormones in his veins making him feel awful. Dean can’t tell the difference anymore.

Dean is quiet for a few blocks, just trying to focus on breathing. Even with the windows open he can smell Castiel, the intoxicating musky alpha scent filling his head with all kind of instinctive responses. He’s going to be in full heat within the next hour or so now, he can feel it, although nothing about this heat has felt normal so who knows if that’s even accurate enough to be trusted anymore. His body definitely wants though, even if his conscious mind has no desire to act on it. His body screams to be mated. He hates it.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Dean demands as they turn into a residential area Dean hasn’t been in before. He should have been watching for street signs and landmarks in case he ends up in a bad way here, but he’s too distracted. The heat overpowers logic.

“Because you need it,” Castiel replies like it’s nothing.

“But you don’t even know me,” Dean snaps, maybe a little ungratefully. He’s still not sure if he’s actually grateful.

“That’s not really relevant. You need help, I’m capable of helping. Anyway, we’re here,” Castiel says, pulling the car into the short driveway in front of a modest house.  Dean wants to press the issue further, but Castiel is already out of the car, making a beeline for the front door. By the time Dean manages to get himself into the house, Castiel has disappeared from the entryway and is presumably in his room, gathering the items he’ll want to access while Dean is ensconced therein. Dean unlaces his boots and leaves them by the door, then leans against a wall for support as he realizes how much effort it’s taking just to remain standing.

“Bedroom is down the hall to the right,” Castiel says when he returns with an armload of clothing. He deposits it on the couch and points in the direction of the room. “There’s a chair in there that should fit up under the doorknob.”

“Thanks,” Dean replies dumbly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel says. “I’ve got a few appointments, so I’m to head back out now. I expect you won’t really notice how long I’m gone, but I’ll knock on the door when I get back to let you know.”

Dean doesn’t know what else to say except thanks, so that’s all he says.

“You’re welcome,” Castiel repeats with a smile. “Oh, one other thing, I hope you won’t decide to take off until you’re back to yourself, but if you do, please disarm the alarm system before you leave.” He passes Dean a slip of paper with a four digit code and a phone number marked on it. “It’ll go off if you open a door without disarming it. I hope you’ll feel safer knowing no-one else can get in. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Dean says again, feeling bereft of any better words.

“It’s alright,” Castiel assures him. “You’re safe here.”

 


	6. Hideaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to be posting more frequently than this, but I'm afraid events have outpaced me a little out in the meat realm. A few things that have been in limbo for a while got themselves sorted out an long story short I'm marrying my beta in 3 weeks so I haven't had much time to write and she hasn't had any time to edit.... Hopefully this will tide you guys over a bit <3
> 
> Since [KreweOfImp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp) hasn't had the opportunity to beta this (see above re: impending marriage) lemme know if you find any glaring errors 'cause I'm nowhere near as good an editor as she is

Dean is in motion the second Castiel locks the door behind him. He can hear the Continental starting up in the driveway but it’s no longer his main concern. Instead, he heads for the bedroom, glancing only briefly before dropping his bag on the floor, then locates the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. It cools him off only momentarily but for that moment, it is bliss. Once back in the bedroom, he turns the lock on the door handle, knowing instinctively that it wouldn’t stop Castiel or any other alpha that decided to come through. He finds the chair Castiel mentioned, jamming it under the handle and giving the door an experimental tug. It doesn’t move. Satisfied, Dean strips out of his sweaty, bakery scented clothes and changes into clean boxers. He hesitates with a shirt in his hands and then decides against it. Nobody is going to see him and besides, he’s going to be uncomfortable regardless of what he’s wearing before too long.

It takes maybe another half hour before it hits him. Dean’s scrolling through the news on his phone, trying to keep himself distracted and mostly failing. The need starts rising, boiling his blood and making him leak slick like nothing else. It’s a betrayal, this thing his body does. It makes him crave things his conscious mind doesn’t want, makes him desire things he hates. The only thing he knows, the only thing any omega knows that will lessen the suffering of a heat even a little, is to mate with an alpha. They still go into heat of course, and it tends to hit just as hard but at least they’ve got someone ready to knot them when it comes on. And that’s all well and good, but Dean doesn’t want to be knotted. He doesn’t want someone to claim his body and thereby feel like they own him.

A synthetic knot is never good enough, but Dean owns one anyway. He avoids using it until the need gets too hot, until his heat is so intense that he can barely think straight enough to know there’s something he can do. He tries to ride it out by fucking himself on his fingers until it’s nearly unbearable, because taking that fake knot leaves him feeling shamed and dirty, like it’s the same as wanting a real knot. Somehow, in Dean’s brain, if he gets off like that to get himself through his heat, he might as well present himself for the next alpha that comes around, because it’s basically the same thing. Dean pulls the knot out of his bag, a hideous pink thing, and throws it on the bed.  He thinks about stripping the sheets off, too, as a courtesy, but decides it doesn’t matter. Castiel probably would have stripped them himself if he had a particular care for them, and it’s not like this entire room isn’t going to reek of Dean’s scent by the time his heat clears. He should care slightly more about how frustrating that’s going to be for the alpha, to be surrounded by the scent of an omega in heat every time he climbs into bed, but in the moment he just can’t afford the energy to think about it.

Lying on his back on Castiel’s bed, Dean stares at a ceiling that does not have a creepy and possibly worrisome water stain on it for the first time since he got to town, and fucks himself on his fingers until he’s too tired to move.

~*~

Dean wakes to a knocking at the door to the bedroom.

“Dean,” calls Benny’s booming voice. “How you doin’ in there brother? You awake?”

“Kinda,” Dean groans. His muscles are stiff and sore, the sheets soaked in sweat and slick, and it’s only a matter of time before his body demands another round. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if there’s some kind of radical surgery he can have that will remove whatever the fuck it is that puts his damn body into heat. He’d figure out a way to get the money for it. Somehow. Anything to avoid this.

“I got some food and a couple bottles of Gatorade here for you,” Benny informs him. “And some clean sheets if you like. If you wanna strip off the old ones I can get ‘em in the wash before Cas gets home.” Groggily, Dean drags himself upright, his body protesting at every motion, but somehow he manages to strip off the old sheets and shuffle to the door. He dislodges the chair and releases the lock, opening the door just far enough to pass the sheets to Benny.

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs.

“No worries,” Benny assures him. “I brought you a bit of pie ‘cause I know it’s your favourite, but there’s some other stuff in there too, just to keep your strength up until this whole thing passes. Cas says he’s gonna leave some breakfast for you outside the door before he leaves for work.”

“I feel like an asshole taking over his house like this.”

“I wouldn’t stress about it. This ain’t the first time Cas has stuck his neck out for an omega that needed a bit of a break. I don’t think he feels too put out, and he sure as hell wouldn’t want you beatin’ yourself up about it.”

Dean grimaces. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t mean nothin’ except take care of yourself and let me and Cas worry about the rest.”

“Thanks Benny.” Dean doesn’t like it, being ingratiated to an unfamiliar alpha, but he doesn’t really have any good choices right now. “Can I pick up some extra shifts on my days off after I get back on my feet? Taking this time off work is really gonna put a dent in my budget.”

Benny laughs. “Ain’t you never heard of heat leave, kid? You’re covered.” He passes the bag of supplies to Dean through the gap in the door. “I’m gonna get out of here. You get in touch if you need anything, you hear?”

“Sure thing,” Dean tells him, locking the door back in place behind him and jamming the chair back up under the handle. The pie smells amazing, but Dean’s not sure he can stomach any food right now even if it’s pie, so he opens a bottle of Gatorade and drinks half of it in one long gulp. It’s going to be a long couple of days. He needs to stay hydrated.

~*~

The next time Dean is aware of anything other than the searing desire in his veins and the overwhelming need to take a knot, he hears motion out in the house. It’s got to be Castiel, though there’s nothing about the sounds to specifically identify him. Somewhere in the haze clouding his brain, Dean’s aware that the alarm would have gone off if it was someone else, so it must be Castiel.

Dean paces. The knowledge that his mysterious guardian is puttering around in the other room is thoroughly unsettling. An omega’s senses are heightened during a heat, so even though Castiel is kept from him by a door and quite a bit of airspace, his scent seems to filter through and it’s tantalizing. Dean hates alpha scent, fears it and loathes it, but right now the smell of Castiel in the other room is almost enough to make his mouth water. It’s almost enough to make him want to unlock the door and invite him in.

Almost, but not quite.

The fear response, the one that’s kept Dean safe so many times, right now it’s stronger than the response to that smell. Dean’s body wants Castiel in here so he can abate Dean’s suffering. Dean’s body wants to be claimed and fucked and sated but Dean’s mind does not, and the mind calls the shots.

Dean just hopes that holds. He doesn’t think he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror if he caved to that desire.

~*~

Dean doesn’t cave in. Or at least, not entirely. He doesn’t invite Castiel in. He stays as far back from the door as the room allows when he hears Castiel leaving a tray of food outside the door in the morning, holding his breath as his skin prickles with need and his body cries out to be mated. He leaves the tray outside the door for a full twenty minutes after he hears Castiel arm the alarm, lock the front door, and drive away in his Continental. But once those twenty minutes are up and he’s eaten the food and deposited the tray back outside the door, he caves far enough to retrieve the silicone knot from where he threw it on the bed the night before.

It’s thicker than his fingers, longer and firmer, and the fake knot at the base flares out in just the way he supposes a real knot does. He’s never actually seen one in person, and he’s never been interested in alpha porn so he’s pretty much avoided seeing one there either. But it stands to reason that a device made to simulate the feeling of an alpha knot would probably bear a pretty close resemblance to an actual alpha knot. In any case, it’s a totally different experience than when he fucks himself on his fingers. The shaft slides easily in and out of Dean’s already thoroughly slicked hole, filling him up but not quite satisfying his needs. He thrusts faster, harder, desperate for the release that will only tide him over until the next wave of desire takes over. Dean’s other hand flies over his cock, tugging in rough strokes that are far more focused on release than pleasure. When he finally comes it happens with a shout on his lips and the image of a blue eyed alpha in his mind.

Afterwards, Dean creeps down the hall to the bathroom. His legs are rubbery and weak, his head swimming like he’s had one too many to drink, but once he’s under the spray of a shower he is certain that it was worth the effort. His body is still overheated. His muscles twitch and jump like they always do after an orgasm, tiny little electric shocks going off at all his nerve endings like he built up too much energy during his climax and they’re trying to vent it before he explodes. But for all the heat in his blood and fire on his skin, the warm water is soothing in a way that defies logic. He washes away sweat and slick with the Old Spice body wash Castiel has in his bathroom, and as the soap swirls down the drain it feels like some of the shame goes with it. Not all. Not enough. But some, and that’s better than nothing.

~*~

Dean doesn’t really know how long a normal heat lasts. He knows that the anatomy textbooks they pass around during health class in high schools, the ones from the ‘70s with the yellowing pages and outdated ideas about gender roles, they say a normal Omega can spend between two and five days in heat, depending on a number of factors. They never went into detail on what those factors were or what an abnormal omega was. That would have been covered in the separate seminars, when the alphas went to one room and the omegas went to another and the betas to a third location. Dean got chucked in with the betas because he hadn’t presented like everyone else in his class, so they just kinda assumed he’d be a beta. How wrong they were. Not only is he not a beta, Dean is anything but a normal Omega. Much like the spacing of his heats, the actual length of them is something of a crapshoot. It’s horribly unpredictable. On a couple of occasions his heats have lasted a single day, coming on and fading out in just over twenty-four hours, and while he knows most Omegas would count him lucky for that, Dean doesn’t see it that way. He’s also had heats that have lasted ten days. Ten grueling, agonizing days. At this point he wouldn’t even be surprised if he broke that record, though he’d be eternally grateful if that didn’t happen while he was commandeering Castiel’s bedroom.

Its day three before Castiel even attempt to speak to him through the door.

Dean is in between waves at the time thankfully, though he doesn’t know if it’s pure dumb luck or if Castiel somehow knows that. He’s not sure he wants to ask. It seems too personal on both sides, and moreover, Dean doesn’t really have the capacity to think about much at this particular juncture. He’s tired; exhausted, really. Worn out to an extent he only ever really gets when he’s in heat. Up until this point Castiel has left him meals outside the door and then left him alone. He knocks and calls out a greeting to let Dean know he’s returned from work, in case Dean cares, but that’s it.

This time when he knocks on the door, Dean doesn’t immediately hear the retreating footsteps to let him know Castiel has returned and is leaving him alone. Instead he knocks, pauses a moment, and then calls out.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice sounds out. It’s soft and careful, like he’s worried Dean will be sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake him, like he’d prefer to be whispering but knows it won’t accomplish what he wants.

“Hey,” Dean replies wearily. He fumbles for a shirt, unsure why he cares. He doesn’t think Castiel is trying to come in and he wouldn’t be removing the chair even if he was. Dean could be stark naked in here and Castiel would never know the difference.

“I need to go get groceries, and I just wanted to check if there’s anything in particular you’d like me to pick up while I’m out.”

Dean ponders for a moment. At this point in his heat, the nausea has mostly faded and he’s pretty much hungry all the time but not necessarily motivated to do anything about it. He’s been well fed here, too. His heat-addled brain won’t really let him recall most of _what_ he’s been fed, but it’s been plenty and not terrible, so it’s not like he feels deprived. But what Dean wants, what Dean always wants when he’s in the midst of a heat and cursing every cell of his body, is a cheeseburger. A big, meaty, juicy cheeseburger, dripping with melted cheese, preferably with bacon on it. Not the kind you get at a drive through fast food place, but the kind they make at trendy hipster burger joints with clever names, short menus, and long lines. And he is never at any point in time in a position to make that happen, because first of all he can barely stand on his own two legs long enough to shamble to the bathroom and take a piss let alone drive to one of these places, but more importantly going out in public like this is a good way to get himself assaulted or worse. So as much as it absolutely grates at Dean to put himself in the debt of a relatively strange Alpha, he takes the offer.

“I would figuratively kill a man for a proper cheeseburger right now,” he says shamelessly.

“Most people would say literally in that instance. I’m impressed you’re sticking to that grammatical detail.”

“Hey, I’ve made some stupid mistakes in my life but I’m not about to add murder one to that list. I’m all for being hyperbolic though.”

Cas laughs. Dean can envision the smile on his stupid beautiful face. “I know just the place, then. Fries or onion rings?”

“Onion rings,” Dean replies. And then, “Please,” essentially an afterthought. Chalk it up to the heat. He’s a lot of things but he’s not impolite. Usually.

“Of course.” Castiel leaves without further comment, arming the alarm system behind him. The Continental is barely out of the driveway before Dean feels it coming on again, that quickening of his blood that tells him it’s not long now before he’s going to be desperate and needy. He’s not certain if his concept of time is thrown off by the heat or if it’s coming on faster than usual but it’s irrelevant. Doesn’t change the fact that he can already feel slick leaking down his thighs.

Dean didn’t realize it while Castiel was there, right outside the door, but he can smell the alpha. He can smell the heavy musk of him, the faint hint of sandalwood, the spice and the touch of vanilla. It invades his nostrils even now that the source of the scent is blocks away, but it’s all he can smell.

Dean hates it.

He wants more.

He’s not supposed to like alpha scent. It is, at best, a warning sign. Alpha scent is Dean’s alert that he needs to protect himself. It is not supposed to make his mouth water and his dick hard. It’s not supposed to make him want things he doesn’t actually want, and it’s certainly not supposed to throw him back into another wave of heat he’s not ready for. Friendly and helpful as Castiel has been, Dean doesn’t want him or his scent or his knot, and the fact that his body disagrees is entirely unwelcome.

Dean growls low in his throat, frustration and desperation warring with desire in his brain. His eyes cast around the room, not sure what he’s looking for, but he knows it the moment he lays eyes on it. He’s already crossing the room for Castiel’s laundry hamper before he quite understands what he’s doing, pawing through until he finds a clean looking shirt. Shaky hands bring the garment up to his face and he inhales deeply, drawing the alpha’s scent into his nose. It’s intoxicating.

Dean’s not proud, not by a long shot, but he’s beyond caring about that right now. He drops onto the bed with his prize in hand, clutching it to his nose even as he reaches for the horrible pink plastic fake knot. It shames him to do this. It shames him to enjoy it. It doesn’t shame him enough to stop.

When Dean comes, with a fake knot in his ass and Castiel’s scent in his nose, he’s not sure he’s ever come so hard in his life. It takes several minutes of labored breathing before he regains the presence of mind to toss the shirt back in the hamper and even then it’s more to hide the evidence than anything else. He’s still coming down from his orgasm when he hears the Continental pull into the driveway and kill the engine, and Castiel has to have been gone for some time now because the shadows have changed their angles on the floor and he was going for both groceries and cheeseburgers, but Dean can’t say for sure. His brain doesn’t work well enough to reason that out right now.

Castiel sets something on the floor outside the bedroom and knocks on the door to alert Dean to his presence, then retreats without a word. It can’t be easy for him having an omega in heat in such close proximity like this, but he’s certainly not intruding on Dean any more than necessary. Hell, he’s not intruding on Dean at all, even though it’s his damn house and Dean’s the one intruding in the first place.

Dean collects his prize, a massive cheeseburger and a box of onion rings that smell absolutely divine, as well as a chocolate milkshake he didn’t ask for but totally would have if he thought of it. A small smile he also didn’t ask for creeps across his face, and against his better judgement, he lets it stay there.

“Thank you!” Dean calls out into the hallway. He means it for the burger, but there’s this little voice in the back of his head that suggests he should also be thanking Castiel for the use of his dirty laundry, and the shame comes back like it was fresh and new.

It does nothing to diminish the fact that this is, without a doubt, the single most perfect cheeseburger Dean has ever eaten in his entire life.


	7. Nose to the Grindstone

A total of five days pass before the heat breaks and Dean starts to feel like a person again. Five grueling, agonizing days ensconced in a stranger’s bedroom, totally dependent on that stranger for food and shelter, but having no interaction to speak of. Castiel doesn’t try to converse with Dean outside of the cheeseburger conversation and for that Dean is grateful. At the best of times a heat makes him want nothing to do with other people, alphas especially, but after the entirely shameful display Dean pulled with Castiel’s scent and his shirt, he’s exceptionally glad Castiel doesn’t expect him to interact.

On the fifth morning, Dean wakes up weary and still exhausted, but without the hormonal haze that has clouded all but the most basic of thoughts since he locked himself in. His muscles ache but they lack the fire that’s driven him to distraction in recent days. In short, he feels awful, but the kind of awful that a person can endure and go about their normal life. It’s a welcome change.

For the first time in days, Dean reaches for his phone to check the time and see if he’s got any messages, and finds that he’s also forgotten for several days to plug the thing in to charge. Cursing himself, he scrounges around until he finds the charging cord and connects it to the wall socket, and the phone wakes up to tell him that it’s only mid-morning. Still enough time to go to work if he wanted, but Dean is betting dollars to doughnuts that Benny would send him home and tell him to come back tomorrow when he’s caught up on sleep.

While his phone charges enough that he can figure out how to get from wherever he is back to his shitty motel, Dean takes his first real look at Castiel’s house. There’s a tray outside the door from breakfast, presumably left before Castiel left for work, and Dean plucks a slice of toast off of it before depositing the rest on the kitchen counter. Castiel’s house is small and comfortable looking, what real estate agents would probably deem cozy. It’s not cramped, but there’s certainly not a lot of space to spare. His kitchen is sparse but functional. The living room has a couch and a single armchair, a TV that’s much bigger than the ones in any of the motel rooms Dean has lived in for quite some time, and pretty much no personal touches. Dean doesn’t see pictures of family or friends, there’s no art, there’s nothing at all to tell him even the smallest hint about who Castiel is as a person. Come to think of it, Dean didn’t really see much personal in his bedroom either. The bedding was all quite plain and there was nothing in the way of decoration or window dressing.

It would not come as a surprise to find that Dean is the first person to visit Castiel’s home in a very long time. It has the air of a home that is private and solitary, a place that Castiel doesn’t invite people into.

Dean feels oddly flattered to be one of the few allowed in, if that’s the case, though he’d trade pretty much anything to avoid being invited over under the same circumstances in future. Now that he’s back on his feet it would be wise to put some effort into finding a more secure place to lay his head. Castiel may be willing to help him out next heat, or he might not, but Dean doesn’t want to find himself relying on that kind of generosity any more than he has to (or at all, for that matter). Ideally, he’d find a bachelor apartment not on ground level, with a sturdy deadbolt and a heavy door. Preferably in a building that caters to somewhat less…transient population. He’s not one to talk, what with the no-fixed-address thing, but anywhere that takes renters by the week and doesn’t ask too many questions is just as likely to have another friendly neighborhood alpha who doesn’t even consider taking no for an answer.

Dean just woke up, but he’s already tired.

While his phone charges, he takes a shower, this time without the thrumming of his heat in his veins. He sings a little Zeppelin while he washes his hair, revelling in the water pressure and the steamy heat. He languishes under the spray much longer than is necessary, but it’s not like he has anywhere to be. When Dean shuts off the water and wipes the steam off the mirror he’s momentarily surprised by the amount of stubble clinging to the face staring back at him but then he remembers it’s been five days since he was last introduced to a razor. It’s not a terrible look for him, really. He wears it well. There are little flecks of red and blonde throughout the soft brown of his beard when he lets it grow in, and there is something to be said about the time saved by not troubling himself with a razor every day. But it also gets itchy, and when he thinks about the way he sweats around the ovens back at Lafitte’s, any thoughts Dean had about keeping his beard go right out the window. He didn’t bother to pack a razor when he threw his possessions haphazardly into a duffle bag a few days ago though, so that will have to wait. He also needs a haircut.

And a drink.

And, more pressingly than all of the above, a proper meal.

The cold toast and tepid coffee Castiel left for him took the edge off somewhat, and the shower really was a priority, but he really needs to get himself moving so he can figure out where he is, how to get from there to his motel, and where he can get food in between points A and B. As much as he just slept like the dead, it’s not going to be long before the exhaustion left in the wake of his heat catches up with him, and he wants to be safely locked away in his less than safe room before that happens. He’s got to work in the morning, or at least, he thinks he does. Dean should probably figure out what day of the week it is at some point.

When his phone finally has enough battery life to use, the miracle that is google maps gives him his current location, a few blocks off a main thoroughfare, and tells him it’s about thirty minutes on foot back to his motel. It’s a hell of a lot longer than Dean wants to be walking right now, but it’s better than still being here when Castiel gets home from work. At least when he was in heat he could hide behind a barricade and not require any further excuse. He’ll have to speak to the alpha at some point in time, sure, but it would be preferable if that wasn’t today.

With a heavy sigh, Dean slings his duffle over one shoulder. He disarms the alarm system, somehow remembering Castiel’s request from several days ago, then re-arms it, and steps out into the harsh light of day. His stomach rumbles and he wants a nap but first things first. There’s a long walk ahead of him.

~*~

Dean transitions back into his schedule at the bakery without fanfare or fuss. If Benny has any concerns about the amount of time he took off he certainly doesn’t voice them and his coworkers don’t say a word either. There’s no kid gloves, no careful handling. He calls Benny to let him know he’s back on his feet and will be ready to work his next shift, shows up, and just slides back into things as if nothing happened. Nobody treats him like he’s got anything to prove or anything to make up for, and for that Dean is eternally grateful. It’s bad enough that his goddamned body makes him incapable of leaving the house for a few days whenever it damn well feels like it but it would be even worse if everyone treated him like an incompetent baby after the fact. It’s not his fault biology doesn’t know he’d be the worst father ever (his own father excluded). It’s not his fault his body has no idea that he has zero intention of ever carrying or raising a child. He shouldn’t exactly be punished for that.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t like children. They’re okay, mostly. Some people’s children are awful, squalling things, but that’s much more a reflection on the parents than on the children. But kids aren’t so bad. Dean doesn’t mind being around them when the situation calls for it. He doesn’t want any of his own though. Doesn’t want to bear them, doesn’t want to birth them, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want to raise them. He doesn’t even have a permanent address. That’s no way for a kid to live. And he’s got no good examples of parenting in his life to draw on so he’d probably fuck them up despite his best intentions. And more importantly than all of that, more than all the reasons he could list as to why he shouldn’t have kids, there’s the fact that he simply doesn’t want them. That should be enough. That should be more than enough. Dean figures he should be able to say, no, this isn’t for me, and be required to field exactly zero questions on the matter.

If only society were that progressive.

An omega is biologically designed to further the species. That’s their role. Male, female, or otherwise, it doesn’t matter much, an omega is a breeder. They attract alphas because those are the strongest, the most dominant, the best genetics, and they make babies with them, and that’s what they’re for apparently. No one seems to consider whether an omega actually wants those babies, it’s just assumed that they will have them and raise them and love them, because they grew the parts required to do so.

As if having a uterus automatically makes one fit to be a mother. As if having a dick makes one fit to be a father.

For a couple of weeks after his heat, everything seems normal. Or, you know, as normal as Dean’s life ever gets. Not specifically abnormal. Status quo. He bakes and he sells muffins and he avoids eye contact with the creeper at his motel. But after a while, as he gets back to the swing of things, Dean notices that something is off. Not wrong, per se, but different. He can’t quite put his finger on it though, so he pushes the thought to the back of his mind and peels apple number four hundred and sixty seven (he thinks). It’s apple pie day and also apple turnover day and also apparently apple fritter day tomorrow, so Dean has been peeling apples basically since the moment the bakery opened in preparation for the absolutely obscene amount of apple filling Benny is going to need.

Dean really likes apple pie. You might say it’s his favourite. Really he likes any kind of pie, but apple ranks just a little bit higher than the rest of the things you can put in pies. The way the little bits of apple get just perfectly soft in the baking, sweetened with brown sugar and just the right amount of cinnamon, it’s heavenly. If he had to forsake all other kinds of pie and pick one and only one to enjoy for the rest of his life, he’d pick apple. Well, he’d try to reason his way out of having to pick in the first place because a man should not be restricted to a single kind of pie, but if pressed he’d pick apple. So really, he doesn’t mind peeling a fucktillion apples, because that means tomorrow he can take home an apple pie.

It also means he can grab a couple of apple fritters.  He’s yet to actually eat one of the fritters from Lafitte’s for some reason and that’s just a crying shame. The way they smell as he’s glazing them in the morning, as the sun starts to cast its light through the window and make him feel like he’s not the only person on the planet who’s awake, it’s enough to make him drool. But even though he’s made quite a few batches of them since starting this job, he’s never actually eaten one.

Totally unbidden, Dean is treated to a rather vivid memory, one that nearly makes him drop the knife he’s using to peel the apples. Clear as day in his mind, as if he’s been transported back in time to the very moment it happened. It’s like he’s standing in the bakery, box in hand, filling it up with a selection of donuts for Castiel before he even knew who Castiel was. In his hands there’s an apple fritter, little chunks of cinnamon spiced fruit sticking out from the dough, coated in glaze, so real he can almost smell it. And Dean has no idea why he’s thinking about this just now except for maybe the sense memory of the apple fritters, but as soon as the memory lets go of his brain he’s got a perfectly clear idea of why things have felt off.

It’s been weeks since Dean came through his heat and got back to work, since he fled Castiel’s house in silence, but he hasn’t seen Castiel since.

It’s not like Dean cares. He’s just some alpha who helped Dean out of a tough situation. It’s not like they’re friends. It’s not like he even knows the guy. But now that he realizes that Castiel hasn’t been in to the bakery since that day, he’s also pointedly aware that means he’s never actually thanked him for pulling Dean’s ass out of the fire.

And now he feels like a complete asshole.

He’s still stewing on that thought ten minutes later when Benny comes around the corner with a bag of flour hefted over his shoulder.

“Hey Benny?” Dean calls, halting his boss in his tracks. “You seen Castiel since I got back to work?”

Benny shakes his head softly. “No brother, he hasn’t been in in a couple weeks. Why you ask?”

Dean sets down the apple he’s been peeling, shrugs his shoulders in clear discomfort. “He wasn’t home when my heat broke, so I kinda left without saying goodbye, and I feel shitty about it. I was hoping he’d come in for doughnuts or something at some point but so far no go.”

“Well it’s not like he’s a pastry for breakfast every day kinda guy so that don’t mean nothin’, but if you wanna give him a holler I’m sure he’d appreciate that. He gave you his number, didn’t he?”

“Yeah…” Dean says. “But I’d feel weird about calling him. What do I even say?”

Benny laughs. “Whatever you were planning to say if he came into the bakery, Dean. Might start with ‘thanks’ and go from there. How you doin’ on those apples?”

“Up to my elbows and getting deeper,” Dean replies. “Should have ‘em done soon.”

“Good, good. Take over on the register when you’re done with those so Celeste can go on her lunch break, will ya?”

“Which one’s Celeste?” Dean asks, voice tinged with shame. He really should know his coworkers by name at this point. All of them. He’s been here long enough.

“Redhead with the comic book shirts,” Benny reminds him kindly.

Dean turns his attention back to peeling the apples. There’s no reason it should have taken him this long to ask about Castiel, and there’s no reason he shouldn’t know his coworkers names. Dean’s not one for making connections, but even so, there’s a threshold. This is bare minimum not-being-an-irritable-shithead territory. He needs to do better. That’s the general shape his thoughts take while he’s peeling the rest of the apples, and he gets lost in it right up until he reaches in to the box for another apple and finds it empty. He washes his knife and sticks the bucket of peeled apples into the cooler, then heads out front. Celeste is leaning against the counter with one hip, arms crossed over her chest, surveying the contents of the display case with keenly narrowed eyes.

“Something wrong with the cookies? Looks like they’ve personally offended you.” Dean almost laughs when she jumps at the sound of his voice, but there’s something a little too familiar in the look on her face when she turns around and he quickly stifles it. Dean knows that looks. He’s seen it in the mirror one too many times.

“Jesus, Dean, you scared the pants off of me.”                                                                                  

“Sorry Celeste, didn’t mean to.”

“Celeste? Oh god. You must have been talking to Benny. Please, call me Charlie. Celeste is my father’s name.”

Dean stares at her blankly, unable to fathom what in the actual fuck she’s talking about.

“You know, ‘cause like, that’s all formal, but nobody calls me that. Like in old movies.”

“I see,” Dean replies. He doesn’t.

“Aaaaanyway,” she continues, “Just call me Charlie.”

“Whatever you say, Charlie,” Dean shrugs, throwing a thumb over his shoulder towards the back room. “Benny says it’s your lunch time.”

“Sweet action. I’m starving. I was thinking about grabbing one of those croissants but the longer I stared at them the more they started to look like flaky little Cylon raiders and it’s giving me the heebie jeebies.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” Dean admits.

“Battlestar Galactica?” Charlie presses. Dean just shakes his head. “You are missing _out_ ,” she cries. “I’ve got the whole series on Blu-ray. I could lend them to you. You’d probably love it. Such a good show.”

Dean’s not about to tell her he doesn’t have a Blu-ray player. Or a TV of his own. Or a permanent home. Or any desire to borrow things from people who might then start to think they’re friends. Friends ask questions. Friends get under your skin and learn things about you. Friends figure out who you really are.

“Or ooh! Strike that. I’ve been meaning to do a re-watch. You should come over after work some day and watch with me. We can order pizza and marathon. It’ll be great!”

Dean doesn’t know what else to say (that’s not true, he knows he wants to say no, but she just seems so excited), so he says, “That sounds great.”

“Yay!” She exclaims. “Oh you’re gonna love it. Okay. Okay. Neat. Um. I should go have lunch now, but yeah. We’ll make plans. Yay!” Dean can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. Whatever it is that made her jump at the sound of Dean’s voice, whatever left that haunted look in her eyes, it didn’t break her spirit. Dean wonders if that makes her stronger than he is, because you don’t get ghosts behind your eyes like she has unless you’ve been through something hellish, but here she is smiling and laughing and seeking out friends and living life, and Dean’s just treading enough water to keep from drowning.

It’s not until she brushes past him on the way to the office that he realizes two very important things.

Charlie smells like omega, sweet and pure and innocent.

And Dean hasn’t smelled alpha on a single person that works at this bakery.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's right, it's a Charlie! I like writing Charlie. She is the literal best. Also a thousand apologies that I've been the worst at replying to comments lately. I'm working on it, but I see and love every single one of them and you guys are just the greatest. *loves on all of you*
> 
> I've got a few comments on the identity of the scary unpleasant alpha at Dean's motel, so I want to address that. He's nobody. Or more accurately, he's everybody. I thought about making him someone frightening and intimidating from the show but I figure if he's nameless and faceless and could be literally anyone, that does a better job of linking him to Dean's fear that some alpha, any alpha he meets, could be the one that does him real harm. So yeah. Imagine him however he comes to mind for you, 'cause that's how Dean's fears manifest.
> 
> Anyway, that was a bit dark. Carry on.
> 
> I can be found on [Tumblr](http://dangerousnotbroken.tumblr.com), if you're into that sort of thing.


	8. The Perils of Voicemail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look it's been a whole month since I updated! I said I was gonna try not to do that, didn't I? Sorry 'bout that. Things got a little hectic up here what with getting married and all, and since my beta is now also my wife she's been equally busy. Hope this goes a little way towards making up for it!

Dean still has the little slip of paper bearing Castiel’s phone number and alarm code tucked into the pocket of his jacket. He finds it with his fingers every once in a while when he’s walking to work, hands jammed in to guard against the cold, and then promptly forgets about it until the next time. Just like he tries to forget about the way Castiel’s scent made him feel, and just like the way he tries to forget how Castiel himself made Dean feel.

It’s not every day that Dean encounters an alpha that doesn’t scare him just on sight. To be fair, Castiel did scare him at first too just by merit of being an alpha. But that’s where he diverges from the norm. Not only does he not frighten Dean, but Dean actually finds himself curious about the quiet alpha, thoughtful. Dare he say interested? Not in mating, of course, or even dating. Dean’s not that kind of omega. He’ll never settle down. He’ll never let an alpha knot him. But Castiel is a curiosity. There’s something about him that sticks in Dean’s brain and won’t let itself be dislodged.

So after work, Dean goes home with his hands in his pockets, and this time when he finds the little folded up bit of paper with Castiel’s number on it, he hangs on to it, keeping it in the palm of his hand until he’s past the watchful alpha in the parking lot and back in his motel. The door locks behind him, making him as safe as he’ll get here. Not truly safe, not if the alpha decided he wanted in, but safe enough for now.

Dean’s fingers don’t even hesitate as he dials Castiel’s number. It rings a couple of times while Dean certainly does not hold his breath, but he just gets the recording.

_You’ve reached the personal and confidential voicemail of Castiel Novak, licensed security advisor with Garrison Alarm Systems. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number and a brief message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you._

It sounds exactly like Castiel except not, in the way that recorded voicemail messages tend to. It’s so formal, so perfect, Dean can imagine that he recorded and erased it a dozen times before he got the inflection right. There’s  a beep on the line which Dean would be expecting if he was a functional human being and not someone who is befuddled by voicemails, and then a few seconds of dead air before he remembers how to form words with his mouth.

“Uh, hi Castiel. It’s Dean. From the bakery. Um, hey, listen, sorry I took off while you were at work and didn’t say anything. I was feeling, you know, weird, about being in your place after my heat cleared and I kind just bolted. Sorry. That was kinda rude. I was hoping you’d be into the bakery at some point so I could say thanks in person but I haven’t seen you since so um, this is me, saying thanks for giving me a place to stay when I was out of luck. Anyway. I guess I’ll see you around. Bye.”

Dean hates leaving voicemails. They’re awful. The only thing worse than calling expecting to speak to a person and getting voicemail is expecting to get voicemail, having your message all lined up in your head, and then having the person answer. Totally throws things off.

Belatedly, Dean remembers that he did not leave Castiel his number on the voicemail, which also would have been the polite thing to do. He’s probably got call display, but still. He could make some kind of effort here.

Oh well, too late now.

~*~

Apparently, the conversation about watching Battlestar Galactica was an ice breaker because Charlie starts making a point of chatting with Dean every time they work together. They’re friends now. Besties apparently. The other day, she brought him lunch! Just a sandwich and a bunch of veggie sticks, nothing fancy, but it is possibly the sweetest thing a co-worker has ever done for Dean. The bar is pretty low there, though. Most of Dean’s former co-workers have been unpleasant people in unsavory lines of work. Still. It’s nice, and while Dean would normally be a bit irritated with the attention, he can’t help but be absolutely enamored with Charlie. She’s like a little sister except instead of Dean looking out for her, she seems to be looking out for him.

It occurs to Dean that she might have seen in his eyes something very similar to what Dean saw in hers. He makes a point to find some way to reciprocate the kindness, even something small. He’s not really sure how though. He’s pretty out of practice with this whole _having friends_ thing.  But he’ll figure it out. It seems like he’s not going to be leaving this job or this town any time soon, so he might as well hang on to the people who have made it a bit less awful.

Most of the time, Dean has no idea what Charlie is talking about. She’s a pop culture junkie first class, up to speed on all the latest comic book story arcs and sci-fi movies and video games, plus all the associated memeology. Dean smiles and nods. He’s got no idea. He hasn’t seen a movie in theatres in years, hasn’t had the time, money, or energy to even think about picking up any comic books even if he knew where to start, and the last time he owned a video game console it was 1991 and the Super Nintendo Entertainment System was the height of technology. She rambles about her guild with such enthusiasm that Dean could almost see himself getting on board with it if he only knew what game she was playing. Almost, but not quite.

“Dean,” she pesters, persistent and needling but not entirely unwelcome. “When are you gonna come over and hang out with me. It pains me to think that you don’t know Battlestar. It’s an absolute travesty.”

“I had no idea some space show was that important,” Dean replies, because he knows the casual disinterest will irritate her in the most endearing way.

Charlie sighs heavily. It’s most assuredly exaggerated. “It’s not just _some space show_ ,” she laments. “It’s a seminal work of science fiction, an absolute masterpiece, with complex characters and intricate plot lines and deep religious symbolism and spectacular interstellar dogfights. “

“Well in that case” Dean says with a laugh, “just tell me when to show up.”

“Yes!” She exclaims. “Oh sweet. This is gonna be awesome. You’re gonna love it. Okay, um. When’s your next day off?”

“Uh, Thursday?”

“Kay, great. Thursday afternoon. Awesome. Gimme your phone so I can text myself. I’ll send you my address.” Dean hands his phone over, feeling a smile form on his face as Charlie taps away at the screen, dancing in place to some unheard melody as she does. The curls in her red hair bounce as she moves. “Okay, done. Show up at like, three? We can get through a whole bunch of the first season in one go, really get you a solid intro to the series.”

“You got it,” Dean says with a smile.

Dean’s on shift at the register by himself for the rest of his shift from that point on. Benny comes and goes, the other bakers make brief appearances, and there are obviously other customers, but for the most part, it’s just Dean hanging out with the pastries. There’s only so much fiddling with the display case a guy can do in the course of a shift, too, so he’s always glad when someone comes in for bread or a pie or some doughnuts to take back to the office. It interrupts the monotony of the day and gives him something to do for a few minutes, and inevitably there’s at least some stocking up to do after they leave. It keeps things interesting.

He’s most of the way through his day when the bell on the door jangles, and Dean looks up to see Castiel walking in, ugly beige trench coat flapping in the breeze behind him. He looks just a little frazzled, not crisis level or anything but probably normal person stress, but a smile lights up his face when he sees Dean.

“Heya Castiel,” Dean calls as he approaches the counter.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel replies.

“Need a box of doughnuts for the office folks?”

“Not today,” Castiel says with a laugh. “Although since I’m here I should probably grab a couple of those sausage rolls. I actually came in to see you.” Dean blushes in spite of himself, cursing his very nature that such an innocent comment from an attractive alpha can illicit such a response. He steps back from the counter just a little bit, just to put more space between them, and busies himself with collecting the sausage rolls for Castiel rather than replying. “I got your voiemail,” Castiel continues when it doesn’t appear that Dean is going to engage on the subject.

“Yeah uh, sorry about that.”

“For what?” Castiel asks, his face a mask of confusion.

“For taking off without even letting you know I was going so you could lock the door after? For disappearing without even saying thanks for the hospitality? For leaving you that voicemail and not even leaving you my number in return, so you had to come all the way down here just to tell me you got it?” Dean shrugs his shoulders awkwardly, placing the bag of sausage rolls on the counter.

Castiel waves a hand at him dismissively. “Don’t be absurd. None of that caused me even the slightest problem. For starters, I can lock my door remotely. And you did thank me, when I brought you that cheeseburger, and twice in your voicemail, and several other times while you were staying at my house. And I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but most modern phones have this fancy thing called call display, so I could very easily have called you back if I wanted to. But I wanted to see how you were doing, because last time we were face to face you looked like hell, and it’s not like the bakery is out of my way.”

“Lock your door remotely? What are you, a James Bond villain, got your house all wired up on remote controls?” Dean laughs awkwardly because even as he says it, he realizes the joke is terrible.

Castiel fixes him with a flat look. “You actually listen to my voicemail greeting? I sell alarm systems. We get to try out all the fancy gadgets like that when they come out. I can lock or unlock my house, arm the system, or even control the lights in my house from my phone.”

“Oh.” Dean says, smartly. He had no idea that was even a thing.

“So really. No big deal.”

“So you didn’t even need to give me the alarm code, did you? You could have just done it all from your phone if I decided I wanted to leave.”

“See, now you’re picking up on it,” Castiel says with a grin.

“Well in that case, uh, thanks,” Dean says again, rather the clever one. “For, you know, all of it. I was kind of a dick.”

“You were in heat,” Castiel reminds him. “And you actually didn’t even know it at first, so of course you were out of sorts”

“Ad you were incredibly accommodating, considering an omega you barely know took over your house for five days, ate your food, and kicked you out of your bedroom.” _And molested your laundry_ , Dean thinks to himself, shame making his face heat.

“It’s no problem,” Castiel replies, and it’s his turn to blush now. Dean notices how he averts his eyes, avoids looking right at Dean, how a smile keeps trying to creep onto his face but gets chased away every time Castiel catches it. “You needed help.”

“Well, it was a hug imposition, and I got no plans to need that kind of help in future, but I appreciate you saving my ass anyway.” Dean tries not to think about how literally he means that considering the particularly ominous scenario that Castiel saved him from.

 “It’s, really, it’s no problem,” Castiel assures him, looking about as awkward as Dean feels. It’s so _weird_. Dean has never met an alpha that wasn’t all swagger and bravado and confidence. It’s bred into their bones. Or at least, that’s what he’s always been taught. But here’s Castiel, who instead of seeing an omega’s gratitude as an opportunity, gets flustered and embarrassed. It’s throwing him for a loop.

It’s kinda cute, actually.

 _No,_ Dean reminds himself. It isn’t. He cannot afford to be assigning values such as _cute,_ or _adorable_ , or _non-threatening_ to an alpha. Not when he finally has a job he likes and like, one and a half friends. Not when there’s something tying him to this town that will make him regret having to leave if things go sideways.

Not now that he has something to lose.

“Cool,” Dean replies, trying to get back in control of himself and also the conversation.  “Just the sausage rolls then?”

“Just the sausage rolls,” Castiel confirms.  Dean rings him up and hands over the small paper bag, making extra sure their hands don’t touch when he does. Castiel takes the pastries with gratitude, waving with his free hand as he heads for the door.

“Bye Castiel,” Dean calls after him, which somehow feels even more awkward.

“You can call me Cas,” he calls back. The door closes before Dean can come up with any kind of response.

What has he gotten himself into?

~*~

Dean shows up at Charlie’s apartment at 3 on the dot, not entirely sure what to expect. The entry buzzer at the front door to her apartment building is somewhat decrepit and probably in need of maintenance, but it functions well enough for her to let him in. She’s on the second floor so Dean forgoes the elevator, his heavy boots echoing up the stairs and down the almost adequately lit hallway to her apartment. As Dean raises his fist to knock he takes note of the three deadbolts above the knob, heavy brass things that would make any would-be intruder think twice about the effort required to get in.

Charlie beams at Dean when she opens the door. She’s in pink and purple plaid over a t-shirt with Princess Peach on the front, and he can’t be sure without looking too closely but he thinks it proclaims her a self-rescuing princess. “What the hell is that?” she asks, pointing to the object in Dean’s hand.

“It’s a,” Dean stammers, handing it to her. “It’s a cactus.”

“And why exactly did you bring me a cactus?” Charlie demands, ushering him into the apartment. She locks all three deadbolts and draws the chain lock closed before following. Dean is instantly jealous. It feels like a home. Her living room is comfortable in a lived-in kind of way, not meticulously clean but tidy. He’s pretty sure at first glance that her sofa has to be second or third hand, but it looks cozy enough to nap on, and the shelves on her TV stand are full of DVD’s and video game cases. He expected as much, but it also gives Dean a pang of regret for the fact that he doesn’t really have any clue what kind of movies he’d put on a shelf like that if he even had one. Above the couch is a framed poster from Star Wars: A New Hope, and another wall has what he assumes is a replica sword, but could just as easily be a real weapon. He wouldn’t be surprised.

“Didn’t think flowers would be appropriate?”

Charlie snort-laughs. “Oh my god. You didn’t think this was like, a date, did you?”

“No!” Dean exclaims, eyes going as wide as dinner plates. “I just thought, you invited me over, I should, I don’t know, bring you something. “

“Oh good,” she says with a laugh. “’Cause I’m like, hella gay.”

“I didn’t think it was a date!” Dean insists. “I just don’t, you know, do this often.”

“Do what? Hang out with friends?”

“Yeah,” Dean says a bit sadly.

“Oh muffin!” Charlie exclaims. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Here. Take your boots off, grab a seat, I’ll bring you a beer and we can move on to the part of hanging out that isn’t awkward.”

There’s a part of Dean that isn’t quite certain there’s a part of hanging out that could be anything other than awkward at this point, but he does as he’s told. She brings him a can of beer and hands it over unopened, then busies herself with discs and the TV. Dean cracks his beer and gets comfy on the couch, but he’s still not feeling entirely relaxed. He hasn’t socialized much at all in the past few years. Nothing he couldn’t avoid. But he’s trying now, and those roots he spoke of to Benny seem to be forming whether or not he bids them to.

“Now,” Charlie says, “I’m assuming that since you had no clue what a Cylon was, you also hadn’t seen the classic series, but for clarity I’ll explain. This series takes place basically a generation after that one, so it won’t matter that you don’t know anything about it. None of the characters carry over. One of the actors from the original series is in this, but he plays a different character.”

“Sounds good,” Dean tells her, not sure what else to say.

“You….you do like sci-fi shows right? I didn’t just shoehorn you into this?”

“Totally,” Dean assures her. “I like all the star things. Wars, Trek, you name it. I just haven’t had cable in I don’t know how many years, so I’m a bit out of practice.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie assures him. “I’ll get you re-educated in no time.”

~*~

Four episodes later, they’re pausing to order pizza, and Dean is hooked. Not just on the Battlestar Galactica thing, but also on that thing where he spends time with other human beings outside of a work setting. The show’s good too, but it’s the social thing that’s really doing it for him. He’d forgotten the simple joy of sharing things with another live person; the inane commentary that comes from watching a show together, the inside jokes that form when you share an experience, and the comfort that comes from knowing that there’s someone who actually cares how you’re doing. For a lot of his life, Dean has felt so rudderless, so completely without moorings that it would be easy to believe that his passing would go completely without notice. Oh sure, Sam would realize it eventually, but they don’t talk frequently enough these days that it would be a quick thing. Charlie notices him. Charlie is aware of him. It’s not that Sam doesn’t care, but Sam is thousands of miles aware, so far that he might as well not exist at all when they’re not connected via cellular network. Charlie is right here, tangible and present and aware of Dean’s existence, and she gives a shit even though he hasn’t given her a single reason to.

“So what kind of pizza are we ordering?” Charlie demands. “Meat lovers? Vegetarian? There’s a barbeque chicken one that’s pretty good.”

“As long as you don’t put pineapple on it, we’re fine,” Dean informs her. “But I wouldn’t say no to meat lovers.”

“Various pork products it is,” she says, and dials the pizza place. While she’s on the phone, Dean casts an eye around her apartment, taking in the details. He already knows from his first impressions that it’s decorated with her nerd stuff, but there’s more to it. Book shelves, for example. Dean hasn’t owned more than one or two books at a time in longer than he cares to recognize. He does a decent amount of reading, but it’s usually shit he picks up from second hand shops or those take a book, leave a book piles in motel lobbies. If he wants to reread a favourite, he has to be lucky enough to have a copy fall right into his lap. He doesn’t have room in his life to be dragging around boxes of books. Just the essentials.

The thought that this town might be the town where that ends, where he can finally have a life bigger than the interior of his car, makes him nearly giddy.

Dean strolls over to the bookshelf and starts perusing the titles, beer in hand. There’s nothing here he’s read, but at least some of them he’s heard of. A Song of Ice and Fire, he knows, is the series that Game of Thrones is based on, and he hasn’t seen a single episode but he knows that Joffrey is a dick and if you like a character they probably die bloody, so at least there’s that.

She’s got a hardcover edition of 1984 by George Orwell, a little red ribbon bookmark tucked into the pages, and a battered copy of Animal Farm that tells him she’s read it numerous times, flanked by A Handmaid’s Tale and Brave New World. Dean’s read enough to know the feeling those kind of deep dystopian stories leave in their wake. Right beside those is World War Z, which he’s been dying to read since he saw the movie on a grainy motel TV and hated it, then read online that everyone who read the book first hated it too. Maybe she’ll let him borrow it if he asks nicely.

He’s never even heard of the Wheel of Time series, but there’s swords and monsters and magic looking things on the covers, so he doesn’t immediately hate them. There’s like twenty of them though, and that seems a bit excessive. Dean doesn’t think he’ll ask to borrow those ones unless he develops a case of insomnia and needs something to lull him to sleep. She’s got a copy of Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses for some reason, and something called Vampirates that he really does need to ask about, and stacks and stacks of other books that she’s collected over time. Something by an author named Haruki Murakami. The Hunger Games trilogy. Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Jane Austen. The Hobbit. The Lord of the Rings.

Through a partially ajar door, Dean can see what he assumes is Charlie’s bedroom. Instead of curtains, she has Gryffindor house banners over the windows, tied with gold sash. That’s surprising being that he didn’t see any of the Harry Potter books on her shelf, but maybe she has another bookshelf in her room or something. Dean’s just in the process of wondering what’s behind the other door, the one that clearly isn’t the bathroom but is shut tight, when Charlie hangs up the phone and comes over his way.

“Probably got time for another episode before the pizza gets here,” she tells him, picking up a Captain America figurine off the shelf and fiddling with its bobble-head.

“Sounds good. Where did you get all this stuff?” Dean asks, sweeping his arm around the apartment in a vague sort of all-encompassing gesture.

“Here and there,” Charlie says with a shrug. “Comic conventions. E-Bay. Hanukkah presents. Stuff like that. You like?”

“I think you’ve got more stuff on this book shelf than I own, period.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“And yet,” Dean replies. “I’ve read this one though,” he tells her, tapping the spine on Animal Farm. “And these,” the Douglas Adams volumes. “And I started this one but I hated it.”

Charlie pulls the copy of Farenheit 451 off the shelf when he points to it. “Ugh, me too. I know Bradbury is supposed to be such a classic but I just couldn’t. I only read half.” She puts the book back like she’s anxious to stop touching it. “Hey, um, look. I don’t really know your story, and far be it from me to deny a guy a little mystery, but if you ever need someone to unload on, you know you can always call me, right?”

Dean gives her a tight smile in reply. He wants to say thanks. He wants to tell her he’ll take her up on it someday, because that’s what she wants to hear. But in his heart he knows that’s not a promise he can expect himself to keep, so he nods silently and lets her think of that what she will, and turns back to Battlestar Galactica.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dangerousnotbroken dot tumblr dot com


	9. A Day in the Life

If not for the oppressive lingering of his friendly neighborhood alpha, Dean might have delayed much longer in beginning his search for an apartment. He hasn’t got much in the way of savings yet, although he’s doing much better than the rainy day money he had stashed away before he got the job at Lafitte’s. All his old arguments as to why he’s not ready to get a place still hold up. He doesn’t have enough for a damage deposit and first month’s rent. He doesn’t own any furniture, nor does he have the money to buy any, even something as simple as a bare mattress. He’s got no credit history so it’s gonna be hard to get an account with the electric company, a cable company, any of those things. And not that he admits it to himself when he’s thinking it over, not in any real way, but there’s fear involved. If he gets an apartment, he’ll start amassing stuff. He’ll buy a bed and a couch and a tv. Maybe then he’ll get a table and chairs. He’ll buy dishes. He’ll own more clothing than he can throw in the Impala. Bookshelves and books. You know, stuff. And before he knows it, this town will be a home, even if it isn’t Home, and it won’t matter whether he wants to stay here because he will already have decided. His roots will grow whether he wants to let them or not.

All that seems somewhat irrelevant when he’s exercising every bit of restraint at his disposal to avoid scurrying back to his room like a harried rabbit though, narrowly avoiding casting glances over his shoulder to see if he’s being followed. Dean knows in his heart that he isn’t. The alpha has been bold and imposing for certain, but he’s stopped short of actually chasing Dean. Menacing, sure, but never chasing. Dean doesn’t have any illusions that it will remain that way if he’s still in this ramshackle motel next time he goes into heat, of course, but he’s probably safe for the time being.

Probably.

It would be so helpful if he had even the faintest clue when his next heat was going to hit of course. It’s not the first time he’s envied average omegas. It probably won’t be the last. But it’s kind of hard to plan accordingly when there’s a timer ticking away somewhere and you can’t see the timer. For all Dean knows, it could be tomorrow. It rarely happens this fast but it isn’t impossible. Or it could be six months. Once, he went nearly an entire year without a heat and then ended up incapacitated for nine full days.

Anyway, all that has Dean more than a little skittish, and so even though he’s not entirely certain how he’d manage to pay for all the necessary costs associated with getting an apartment (financial or psychological), he starts hunting.

The internet wasn’t a big thing last time Dean lived somewhere with an air of permanence. When he fled from John’s house under cover of night, he found a job and a place to stay by word of mouth, through friends. Good old fashioned networking. But now there’s craigslist and stuff like that, so on Dean’s day off he can get himself a cup of coffee from the gas station (it’s sludge and he hates it. He’s been spoiled by the good stuff Benny brings him) and sits down with his laptop to search for somewhere to live.

It’s not promising.

Oddly enough, there are a lot of two- and three-bedroom places for rent, which, aside from being wildly out of his price range are also far more space than Dean has any desire to occupy. What’s he going to do with three bedrooms? And it’s not like he has friends so splitting such a place with a roommate or roommates is entirely out of the question. It wouldn’t be so terrible to have a roommate, Dean supposes, if he knew such a person, but he doesn’t so his opinion on the matter is entirely moot.

Dean’s nearing the end of his cup of coffee when he finally finds a place he’d consider calling about. It’s a bachelor suite, small but not unreasonably so, with covered parking for his baby and heat and hot water included in the rent. He could probably even afford it too, if he bought a sleeping bag and crashed on the floor for the first month or so before finding himself a bed on the cheap. It’s almost enough to get Dean’s hopes up, so he starts scrolling through the pictures. The bathroom is old but functional, the shower not too grungy, and the kitchen big enough for Dean to be perfectly happy cooking in. Unfortunately, along one wall of the living/sleeping area, there’s a big glass sliding door, and through the glass he can clearly see it’s on the ground floor. The door opens onto a concrete slab patio, and from there he can see a little patch of grass, then the sidewalk, then the street.

It’s pretty much exactly as safe as his current living situation, and significantly more expensive besides.

Disheartened, Dean gives up for the day, telling himself it’s just a temporary setback. He’s not entirely sure if he believes himself, and he’s even less sure if he wants to.

~*~

Dean rolls into work the morning after his days off feeling like he could sleep for a week and still be tired. It’s not his heat yet, thank fuck, and he’s not getting sick either. Unfortunately, it’s just good old fashioned all-American sleep deprivation. His first night off he stayed up way too late watching Battlestar Galactica with Charlie, finding that he much prefers her company to the stained walls and solitude of his shitty motel room, and then crashed on her couch at only the slightest insistence. Neither of them said it, but running into Dean’s admirer in the parking lot at one in the morning was not worth taking the risk on. His second night, which felt like a Sunday but was technically Tuesday, if you follow those calendar things, Dean had every intention of going to bed at a reasonable hour and sleeping well before work. Not in the cards. Nope. Instead, he was kept awake by the sounds of a fight in the parking lot, one that started out verbal and plenty loud and then escalated to physical and significantly louder. There was yelling. Eventually, there were sirens. A cop car was on site for sure and Dean is fairly certain he heard an ambulance too, although there were no sirens to herald their retreat so probably nobody was in such bad shape that they needed to be rushed to the hospital. Still, it went on long enough that Dean thought his alarm would go off before things settled down. He did manage to snag a few hours sleep but what he did get was plagued by those damned dreams again. John sneered at him in that surreal church, those words haunted him from the gilded pages of the bible, and when his alarm did go off he woke tangled in the sheets feeling like he’d just drifted off.

A bakery is an exhausting place to be when you’re already exhausted. There’s so much potential for injury if you’re not on your game, what with the hot ovens and sharp knives and metal everything kicking around, so Dean is careful to keep his attention focused even though all he wants to do is stare at the inside of his eyelids. A nap or three would feel amazing right now. A gallon of coffee and a cold shower. All of the above, perhaps. Benny eyes him wryly when he catches him yawning.

“Have a little too much fun last night, did we?” his boss says with a chuckle.

“Hardly,” Dean grumbles. “Fight club broke out outside my place last night. I think I slept all of three minutes after the cops broke it up. I’m running on fumes.” He yawns again for emphasis.

“Quit it,” Benny gripes, “You’re makin’ me yawn too.”

“Can’t help it!”

“You think you’re less likely to keel over running around back here for the whole shift or hanging out at the cash register once we open?” There’s this unspoken feeling that Benny wants to offer him the rest of the day off, and an unquestionable certainty that Dean won’t accept, so nobody voices it.

Dean shrugs. “Cash I guess.” It doesn’t really matter. He’s gonna feel on the brink of crashing right up until he falls into bed later.

“Alright well get that coffee into you and then start rolling out those croissants. We’ll get you out front as soon as we’re ready to get the doors open.” Benny heads off to his own tasks without anything more in the way of conversation, but Dean can see the concern clear on his face. He needn’t worry of course. It’s not like Dean’s actively trying to deprive himself of sleep. But trying to tell Benny to stop worrying about someone once he’s decided they require worrying is about as effective as suggesting a fish take a break from swimming, so Dean doesn’t bother saying anything.

The opening of the bakery coincides fairly nicely with Dean’s second wind, so even though he’s no less sleep deprived than he was upon rolling into work this morning, he’s feeling less like a hollow shell and more like a functional person. The sun shining brightly through the dusty front windows (immaculately tidy on the inside but seemingly impossible to properly clean on the outside) makes him almost forget he’s been up since before the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon. Dean’s never been a morning person. He’s perfectly capable of getting himself up and going in the morning (as evidenced by his having and keeping a job that requires such behavior), but it’s just never been a thing he has any desire to do on his own. The appeal is starting to resonate. He can see why people enjoy mornings, when it’s still and quiet and the world is asleep. Things are peaceful and serene, entirely different from the way a city feels at three in the morning when you’re still up from the night before. It’s significantly more wholesome, for starters, and though either encounter with the early morning tends to find him in an equal state of sleeplessness, waking up early seems much more refreshing than when he meets it at the end of a night out. Dean flips the sign from closed to open, unlocks the door, and breathes in the fresh smell of the cool morning air. It fights with the sweet smells coming from the bake ovens but it’s rejuvenating it its own way.

As he makes his way through the morning routine of stocking the display case, cleaning and tidying, Dean hums to himself. He wonders if Charlie is working today. They’re supposed to make plans this week to reconvene for more binge-watching, but he’s never managed to pin down her schedule enough to know what days might work. Of course, that might be because he never writes any of it down, but who’s counting? A quick glance at the day’s schedule sheet shows she’s in for the afternoon, starting her day a couple hours before Dean leaves. That writes today off for social events which is fine by Dean considering he’s going to be entirely useless by the time he gets home. It’s nice to have things like this to think about for a change though, since Dean hasn’t really had anyone he wants to spend time with for the last several years of his life. It’s nice to know someone is looking out for him. It’s nice to be somewhat less lonely.

Dean is so entirely wrapped up in pondering his newly improved social status that the bell on the door startles him, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He looks up to see Castiel walking in with his trench coat flapping in the breeze behind him. The wry grin on his face makes it clear he saw Dean’s startled reaction.

“You awake back there?” Castiel teases as he approaches the counter.

“Almost,” Dean replies tiredly. It’s hard to keep himself from feeling flustered, and it’s not just the jump-scare that’s doing it. Castiel’s smile does something to Dean’s heart rate that he doesn’t quite know how to feel about. It’s no secret (at least not to Dean) that he finds Castiel attractive. He’s devastatingly handsome, even (especially) when his hair is a windswept mess and he looks almost as tired as Dean feels. But Dean isn’t supposed to find himself drawn to alphas. He’s supposed to keep himself as far from them as humanly possible for his own safety. And yet right now he finds himself glad that Castiel is the first customer that’s come in this morning, the first face he has to see other than his own co-workers. “Donuts for the office?” He asks rather than trying to make conversation. Dean is not comfortable with how comfortable he feels around Castiel. It’s time to put the walls back up, even if he needs to do it by hand.

“Yeah, let’s do three dozen this morning though. They went so fast last time I didn’t even get to snag one.”

“Bummer.”

“So how’s things with you?” Castiel asks casually while Dean fills a white cardboard box with still-warm pastries. Like they’re friends. He supposes as far as Castiel is concerned, they are. It’s not like they socialize outside of this bakery, but Dean’s been to his house, slept in his bed, used his shower, eaten his food. It’d be easy to understand if Castiel felt like Dean owed him something for that, but there’s nothing at all that gives Dean that impression. It’s like he’s decided Dean is someone he’s supposed to give a shit about now. Not just in an emergency. Not just when Dean has a crisis and no resources to deal with it. Just, in life. That sounds like some kind of friendship thing.

Dean’s not sure he’s ready to be friends with an alpha.

“Same old,” Dean says, shrugging. “Not really an exciting life.”

“Any closer to finding a safer place to stay?”

Dean just shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. That’s probably really stressful. You’ve still got my number right? Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Uh, sure,” Dean replies, uncertain what to do with that offer. What would he even ask? A place in Dean’s budget that meets Dean’s needs either exists or it doesn’t. He rings Castiel’s donuts up and hands him the boxes. Castiel leaves with a smile, softer than the one he came in with, and Dean’s nose is filled with the musky, heady scent of alpha long after the door swings shut behind him

~*~

Charlie doesn’t show up for work.

Benny tells him she’s out sick, but he also asks Dean if he’ll take a bit of overtime in the afternoon the next couple days to cover her counter shift. Dean’s not dumb. He can do the math. She’s sick in exactly the same way Dean was sick, which is to say, not at all. He hopes that poor kid has a better time of it than Dean does, tells Benny he’ll gladly take the overtime. He could use the money if he’s got any hope of finding a safer place to hide away next time his own heat hits, and besides, Charlie is a friend. Of course he’ll cover her shifts while she’s in a bad way. Even if he didn’t like Benny, he’d do that for Charlie, and he does like Benny, so it’s a no brainer.

Oh his break, Dean sends Charlie a text message.

>>>Sorry to hear you’re not feeling so hot kiddo. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll swing by with supplies if you want. When you’re back on your feet you owe me some Battlestar Galactica and I owe you some beer.

It’s hours before she texts back, but when she does, it makes him laugh.

<<<<It’s not a date. ;)

~*~

At the eventual end of Dean’s shift (he ends up staying a couple extra hours because Benny could only get the last half of Charlie’s shift today covered off, and they were remarkably busy for the middle of the week), Benny corners him in the office.

“Andrea’s been askin’ me when she gets to meet the new guy. You gonna take me up on the dinner invite this time around?”

“I dunno, Benny.”

“You don’t know what, brother? You like eating, right?”

“I do but,” Dean starts, unsure how to finish. He doesn’t know how to articulate why he doesn’t want to. Like, it’s one thing to let Benny take a chance on a completely untrained baker’s assistant. If Dean sucked there’d be nothing to prevent Benny from letting him go and he’d be well within his rights to do so. But he feels wrong about making himself a part of Benny’s life outside the bakery. There’s still some part of him that thinks he won’t last here, and then he’s let Benny care about someone he’s got to fire. Meeting Benny’s wife makes that worse. Going into their home makes that worse. Being social, that makes it hard to keep your walls up, makes it hard to stay as safe in the dark as Dean has gotten used to being. There’s safety in anonymity. There’s safety in keeping yourself at an arms length. Benny is a good guy and Dean knows he doesn’t have anything to fear from him, but he just can’t start letting those walls down.

“Look, Dean,” Benny says, cutting off the need for Dean to find words to explain why he shouldn’t accept, “I get it. You’ve had a hard go. I know you don’t wanna rely on folks to look after you and I ain’t trying to be a mama bear. But you don’t have to go everything alone. Sometimes it’s okay to lean on someone a little, even if it’s just letting them put a meal in front of you once in a while. I won’t pester you any more about comin’ for dinner, at least not this time. But you think about it. You think about lettin’ someone who ain’t asking anything in return be nice to you.”

Dean stares at him, dumbfounded. That’s not what he was expecting to hear. “I’ll uh. I’ll think about it.” That’s all he can make himself say.

“Good enough,” Benny tells him in return. “Now get yourself on home before you fall asleep standing up. And if you run into a similar problem tonight you better text me and let me know you ain’t comin’ in. I’ll send you right back home to bed if you try comin’ in worse for wear.”

“Duly noted,” Dean replies.

True to his word, Dean thinks about Benny’s words on his way home. The whole way home, it’s all he thinks of. He can’t not, ‘cause it sticks right in his throat. That’s not at all why he was declining the invitations originally. He just wants to be left alone with his secrets and his shame, mostly. But it’s hard to deny that Benny has a point.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dangerousnotbroken dot tumblr dot com
> 
> Sorry nothing's actually, you know. Happening. Feel free to yell at me.


	10. I'll Get By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some not entirely specific references to past sexual assault in this chapter that I don't really want to spring on anyone so heads up if that's something that is a concern for you.

The days are starting to blur together.

Usually, that’s when Dean starts to get itchy. That’s when Dean starts looking for a reason, any reason, to pick up what’s his and roll out. It’s been a couple months since he parked it here, and mostly it’s been good, but he’s used to the restlessness seeking him out in the dead of night and setting his feet to stirring, and this is when it should come.

Absently, when he’s not falling into bed so tired that he doesn’t think at all, he thinks he’ll be sad when he has to leave here. It’s not home, but it’s the closest thing to one he’s had in a damn long time. Not this motel. The city. The bakery. These people he’s let himself latch onto like an unwilling barnacle. He’ll miss them like nobody’s business. He won’t miss getting up at the ass crack of dawn, but he’ll miss baking sweet things and taste testing pies and chatting with customers. He’ll miss Charlie throwing pop culture references that go right over his head because he hasn’t seen a movie made this decade. He’ll miss Benny’s drawl and his calming presence. And fuck him sideways, but Dean thinks it’s entirely possible he’ll actually miss Castiel, the awkward alpha with staggeringly little aggression in his personality.

It shouldn’t be too much harder to move on this time than it has been in past. He’s picked up a few more possessions but nothing that’ll spill out of the trunk of his beloved Impala. There’s a book or two he’s borrowed from Charlie he’ll have to return without letting on that he’s going, but he should be able to cut and run. Just pack up and peel out of town just like he always does, before he makes too much of an impression.

Tonight, in this dingy motel, he catches himself daydreaming about staying, and he stamps it down so fast it’s like instinct. But once he acknowledges the thought, it puts down roots just like it wants him to do, and it won’t let go. Why not this town? Why not these people? It’s just as good as any other place, better because he’s got a source of income and besides, didn’t he stop here wanting to put down roots?

Dean doesn’t know his own mind anymore it seems. He used to know what he wanted. Solitude. Anonymity. Facelessness, enough to get by, and a quick exit when he needed it. Now that doesn’t seem like enough anymore. He wants more. Hell, maybe he’s even starting to believe he deserves more. Benny’s done a number on his head with all that talk about letting people be nice to him. He deserves comfort, doesn’t he? An apartment he can live in, not just some motel room with weird stains on the ceiling where he can park it when he’s not out doing something else. He deserves a kitchen to make actual meals in, and somewhere to keep his clothing that isn’t a fucking duffle bag. He deserves a home.

But even when he thinks he believes that, even when he feels like he should be able to make a decision and stick to it, that little voice in the back of his head reminds him of how long he’s been here, how it’s verging on too long, how it’s not safe to let people get too close.

He used to try to have friends, way back. There was a time when Dean thought he could fit. Lots of other omegas lead lives they’re happy with. They’ve got jobs and friends and some of them have mates, and they got to make all their own choices. Fucking free will though, Dean can never seem to do right by himself with that whole thing. Even with the entire world open before him he seems to make decisions that make things so much worse, no matter how he tries. He doesn’t like thinking on it. Sometimes though, the thoughts come unbidden, like the nightmare of the church except he’s awake, so he knows nothing will wake him from it.

Just a couple of beers with the guys from the garage. That’s all it was supposed to be. And why not? Dean thought he deserved friends back then. Thought he could make it work. So sure, why not. A couple of drinks after work. He could do that. He stopped at three, switched to soda. The guys kept drinking. And as the night wound down, Dean found himself sobering up, and why shouldn’t he walk back to the garage and pick up his car?

Because he worked with alphas he doesn’t know very well, that’s why.

Dean should have seen it coming. He would have if he wasn’t so fucking naïve. Didn’t suspect a goddamned thing until he found himself crowded up against the door of his Impala by someone he’d been shooting the shit with not half an hour ago. He doesn’t remember the question asked, all he remembers is knowing that it didn’t matter what he answered. This was going to happen whether he wanted it or not, and there’s nothing he could say to change that.

There was something he could do though.

Somewhere in Dean’s brain he probably knows in better detail, but he won’t let himself access the memory. It’s horrific enough as a blur. So he doesn’t know what he grabbed, just that it was metal, and he doesn’t know what he said, just that it was shouted until his throat was hoarse. He’s bigger than the average omega. That should have been deterrent enough on it’s own but it wasn’t. Walk softly, they say, and carry a big stick.

That was the first time Dean ran without looking back. He doesn’t know what happened after. He didn’t let himself check the news to find out if his would-be paramour walked it off. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t care, but even then he knew it was a lie. It’s because he can’t handle the truth. Time didn’t make that any easier. It just put him further away from it all, so it’s like he’s remembering a movie instead of his own life. But right now further away seems like the best idea.

He’s in the car before he realizes what he’s decided to do. Leaving isn’t hard. His clothes are all still in his duffle. The hot plate doesn’t matter. He’s paid up until the end of the week, but he doesn’t really care about that. As the ugly neon of the Robin Hood Motel fades in his rear view mirror and the road towards the highway stretches out in front of him, Dean heaves a sigh so heavy that it feels like he’s been holding his breath since he got here. Solitude is an escape. Anonymity is freedom.

He’ll call Benny in the morning, he thinks. Maybe he’ll be lucky and it’ll go to voicemail, and he won’t have to hear the disappointment in his boss’ voice. Benny wouldn’t call himself that of course. He’d call himself Dean’s friend even if Dean himself isn’t ready to say that. And he’d say he understands, because Benny has always been kind to Dean even when he really hasn’t deserved it, but it’ll be in his voice. He doesn’t really know what he’ll say. He’s never run out like this when there’s been anyone worth telling he’s leaving. He didn’t tell John where he was going, obviously, and most of the other jobs he’s had as he drifted from town to town honestly weren’t likely to even notice he was gone, let alone care. Will he tell Benny he had to, that he couldn’t stay here anymore? Will he tell him it’s best for everyone if Dean doesn’t stick around? Maybe he’ll tell Benny he’s scared, something he never admits out loud but feels constantly. Maybe he won’t call at all and Benny will have to piece it together himself. None of those sound like appealing options, but it’s gotta be something. If he’s going, there’s going to be a story whether he’s the one that tells it or not.

Dean thinks he’s made up his mind. He’ll drive until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer and pick the first motel with a vacancy. He’s got the cash now, since he’s been saving up for a more permanent place. Not enough for an apartment, but certainly enough for a room for a couple of nights where he figures out what to do. In the morning he’ll take stock, decide if he needs to call Benny or if he can just ghost out of it. Block everyone’s numbers. Disappear.

He ignores the void that forms in his heart, where his heart would be if he still had one.

Just before the edge of town, where the residential lots spread out more and more distantly and he can see so much further down the road, he starts to feel free. Nobody will know him where he ends up. Nobody will care what he did or might have done. Nobody will care enough to think about what’s in his past. It’s hard to have skeletons in your closet if you don’t have a closet. Dean turns the stereo up just a little, lets Robert Plant sing out the lyrics to Ramble On just a tiny bit louder, and he starts to sing along.

The red light that stops him goes on too long. Someone else might just blow through it, late at night with nobody around to notice. There’s no headlights as far as the eye can see in any other direction, but Dean never takes the chance. All it would take is one local cop with too much time on his hands running the plates and digging a little below the surface, and then whatever is hiding in his past won’t stay hidden. He can’t afford that, not for his legal status or for his mental health. Dean thinks it would be his undoing, if he knew what happened that night after he fled. He doesn’t plan to find out just because he was too impatient to wait for a light to change. And as he waits for this light that stays red for an eternity, Dean lets his mind and his eyes wander.

He didn’t notice the church on this corner on the way into town all those weeks ago, or maybe he did and he chose to ignore it. It’s small and old, the wooden siding worn by the elements, but clean in a way that says that the congregants love it. The steeple rises up above the peaked roof towards the sky in defiance, towering over the stunted trees in the yard, and the whole thing appears like a relic from years gone by. All except for the lighted sign out front, the only concession to modernity the church appears to make.

_You Have Friends Here,_ it proclaims, in backlit letters, black on a dingy white backdrop. Odd, Dean thinks, because a church has never seemed that friendly to him. He’s used to these things referencing verses he doesn’t know, parables and psalms and scripture.

The light, somehow, is still red.

Dean glances back at the sign, hoping that somehow it has changed in the interim, but the words still mock him with their simplicity. Of course it’s not for him personally. Of course it isn’t meant to change his course. But the seed, having been planted without his consent, takes root and grows anyway, unconcerned with his protest, and as the light finally, blessedly turns green, Dean hears himself bark out a vicious curse.

“Fuck!” he spits, his face distorting in frustration. He pulls away from the line and instead of going straight forward like he planned on, like he wants to, Dean arcs right, pulling a wide turn through the empty intersection. Before he knows it, the lights of the town are growing brighter in front of him instead of fading in the distance. Driving back is so much faster than running away. And he barely has time to try talking himself out of it before he’s back at the Robin Hood Motel, the ugly neon sign just as garish as it was when he left for what was supposed to be the last time.

Dean loathes the sight of it, but it still feels a little like coming home. And he won’t have to call Benny, and he won’t have to start over, at least not for now. It’s a good thing, he tells himself. It’s good that he didn’t leave. He’s still not sure it’s believable, but he isn’t currently fighting it, so that’s something.

Dean pulls into a spot near his room, and he hasn’t even killed the engine before he spots a familiar face.

That alpha he is so wary of, the one that sets every instinct in his omega brain to panic mode, is leaning against a wall lazily smoking a cigarette. Or at least, he appears lazy. Dean knows he’s nothing of the sort. He is a tightly coiled spring, and Dean would be thoroughly overjoyed to have left this town if it meant never seeing him again. And tonight, right now, as the memories of the events that set him to running in the first place nip at his heels, Dean cannot face it. He can’t bring himself to get out of the car and walk the few feet to his room, can’t bring himself to lock a door that wouldn’t keep his assailant out if he really set his mind to getting in, can’t bring himself to stew in that fear.

It doesn’t really leave him with many options. He can’t get out here, but he already decided not to leave, and there isn’t anywhere else to go. Except maybe there is.

_You Have Friends Here._

Dean hesitates for just a moment, but Charlie answers before he has a chance to talk himself into hanging up.

“Dean! You’re never up this late unless you’re on my couch watching sci-fi!” She chirps, bright and chipper despite the fact that it’s past midnight.

“Hey Charlie,” Dean intones with false cheer. “I don’t suppose you’re home and open to some company at the moment?”

“Just couldn’t wait to see what happens in Battlestar, could you?” she laughs.

“Something like that.”

“Pick up a pizza on the way over and we’ll make a night of it, kiddo.”

Dean rolls his eyes, though he realizes she can’t see it. “You know I’m older than you, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just make sure there’s extra cheese. Charlie Out.”

The alpha watches Dean back out of the parking lot without even killing the engine. Dean knows, because he puts more effort into watching without making eye contact than he does into actually driving. But the alpha stays where he is until Dean can’t see him in the rear view mirror anymore, and then Dean doesn’t care.

Twenty five minutes later he’s parked in front of Charlie’s building with a mushroom and pepperoni pizza, extra cheese, and a six pack of beer because he doesn’t know about Charlie but he needs a drink right now. And for the first time since he picked up the phone to call her, he wonders what he’ll say. There’s a lot to unpack to get a person fully caught up on his chaos and he doesn’t exactly want to, but if he’s going to ask Charlie to give up her couch for the night ( _let people be nice to you without expecting anything in return,_ Benny’s voice whispers in his head) then he’s going to have to say _something_ about why he’s here. And he doesn’t really know what he should volunteer, so in an uncharacteristically cavalier moment, Dean decides to just take the pizza and beer in, and see what she asks. He just hopes it doesn’t backfire.

The sound of Charlie unlocking three deadbolts to let him in untangles something ugly in his chest that he pretended not to notice before that very moment. His shoulders relax a little even though he’s still carrying food and booze, and the smile he gives Charlie when she opens the door to let him in is at least 90% sincere, which is saying something.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Charlie teases as she locks the door behind him. One lock. Two locks. Three locks. A chain.

“I can’t just call a friend in the middle of the night for no reason?” Dean shrugs out of his jacket and tries to shrug off the attention, but it’s futile.

“You could, sure, but you definitely wouldn’t.”

“How do you know? You know next to nothing about me,” Dean argues.

“ _Exactly,_ ” Charlie replies smugly. “You don’t tell me anything about yourself, I practically had to kidnap you to make you start hanging out with me, and I still don’t even have a vague idea of where you live. You have never once called me when I hadn’t called you first and left a message. You’re guarded like a bank vault, and you expect me to believe you’re calling me just to hang, for no reason, in the middle of the night? I call bullshit, Winchester. If that even is your real name.”

Dean should feel attacked. He should probably feel called out. But like, she’s got his number, 100%. She’s entirely correct. He used to be so much better at lying than this, but then, he used to keep every single person in his life at such a distance that they would never be able to see him in enough detail to pick out a lie so there’s that. “Don’t suppose you’d let me crash on your couch for the night?” Dean asks rather than actually answering the question. It’ll all come out soon enough, he supposes. He’s just buying time.

“That’s a stupid question,” Charlie informs him. “Of course you can sleep on my second-hand ugly ass couch. Tonight or any other night. You didn’t even have to bring beer and I would have said yes to that.”

“Oh good ‘cause you were pretty much the only person I could think of to call.”

“I can think of at least two other people who would help you out in a bind, but I get your point. Grab some plates out of the kitchen, would you? I realize Battlestar was a pretext at this point, but we might as well since you’re here.”

“Thanks Charles,” Dean replies, a sheepish grin on his face.

~*~

Dean plans to tell her what’s up after the first episode. He really does. They eat pizza and drink beer and laugh and it’s good, and he plans to tell the truth after an episode. There’s no shame in telling another omega about his fears, right? Probably not. She’ll probably understand completely. Hell, he’s seen that haunted look in her eyes. She probably knows all too well what he’s afraid of. But the credits roll and it just doesn’t seem like the right time, so Charlie takes the empty beer bottles to the kitchen while Dean changes the disc on the DVD player, and the second episode starts without Dean sharing a single detail.

And he feels shitty about it.

He doesn’t want to keep her in the dark. Okay well, that’s not true. He kinda does. He wants everyone to be in the dark about his life always, because it’s so much easier to keep his secrets if nobody knows them, and it’s so much easier to hide when nobody knows what to look for. But he owes her that much, at least. He owes her the right to decide for herself whether she wants to get burdened with Dean’s bullshit. He’s more afraid than he has a right to be and he’s more trouble than he’s worth, and Charlie doesn’t need to get weighed down with that, not without the option to cut and run. That’s the fair thing to do. That’s what he ought to do.

Half way through the second episode, Charlie passes him another beer, and he opens his mouth to say thank you but that’s not what comes out.

“So there’s this alpha at the place I’m staying,” is what he says instead. Not home. Not my place. The place I’m staying. And Charlie doesn’t miss a beat, she just slides smoothly back into her seat, pauses the episode, and nods. “Mean motherfucker, or at least he looks that way. Anyway, he’s got eyes on me and not in a wholesome, we should be friends and go for walks in the park kinda way. Makes my skin crawl. Made some entirely unwelcome advances when I was going into heat last time and that’s how I ended up crashing at Castiel’s place for a couple of days, I’m sure Benny mentioned something about that.”

“He didn’t,” Charlie interjects, “and we’re gonna come back to that, but go on.”

“Anyway, I got home earlier and this alpha was outside lookin at me. And I just. I couldn’t. Couldn’t face him, couldn’t get out of the car. I don’t have the energy for it. So I figured get away for a night, go back when he’s not outside, and I’ll be fine.”

Charlie gives him a tight smile, squeezes his hand. Her shoulders move like she wants to hug him but is supressing the urge, and Dean can’t decide if he wants her to give in to it or not. His body does. The human contact would be nice. But his brain thinks he shouldn’t want the attention.

“Well then, since you obviously won’t be driving home tonight, you might as well open that beer. It’s just too bad you don’t have a change of clothes, ‘cause now you gotta sleep in those jeans.”

“Uh, well, actually. My duffle bag is in my car.” Dean doesn’t bother explaining why he has all his clothes with him if he couldn’t get out of the car to go into his room, and she doesn’t ask.

“And it’s in your car instead of in my apartment because….?”

“Didn’t want to assume you’d be okay with me crashing here?”

“Dean Winchester, you are absurd. Go get your bag right now and stop assuming I don’t want to help you. I swear to god, it’s like you’ve never had a friend before.”

Dean doesn’t bother to tell her how close to the truth that is.

After two more episodes, he falls asleep on Charlie’s couch under a blanket printed with cartoon characters, on a pillow shaped like a cupcake. She leaves a glass of water on the table for him, turns out all the lights, and checks the locks like its habit. They’re all still locked from when he came back in with his bag but he completely understands why she’d check. Dean would too, if he had locks that would hold up to more than a sneeze. Just before she retires for the night, she flips down the door on a keypad he hadn’t noticed before, just above the light switch beside the front door, and pushes a couple of buttons. A computerized voice replies “System armed, stay mode. Perimeter secure.”

When Dean’s eyes adjust to the darkness, long after Charlie goes off to her own room, he can’t help but notice that it’s the same alarm thing that Castiel had on his wall.

~*~

Charlie’s apartment is bright in the morning. There are enough windows that the sun fills the room with a brilliant glow, and it’s the first time in a while he’s slept this late so it’s a bit jarring, but also a nice change from rising before the sun. Charlie herself is already awake, sitting at the kitchen table in batman pajamas drinking coffee from a Captain America mug, and she grins big when she sees he’s awake.

“Morning sunshine,” she chirps. “You want coffee?”

“God yes,” Dean groans, listening to his back snap and his shoulders pop as he stretches. He’s not old, but damn does he feel like it some days.

“How’d you sleep?” Charlie asks as she pours him coffee. He doesn’t recognize the character on the side of it, but it appears to be from some kind of magical video game or something.

“Like I had three deadbolts and an alarm system keeping me safe,” Dean replies.

“Good. Sounds like you needed that.” She hands him the mug and a carton of milk, and Dean decides he’s going to have sugar in his coffee today not because he needs to cover up the taste of gas station coffee but because he wants sugar.

“Guess so.”

“Don’t suppose you know how to make pancakes, do you?”

“I do in fact. Is that you asking me to make breakfast?” Dean sips his coffee and lets the warmth wake him up a little more. It’s nice to actually have time to enjoy it for a change.

“If you’re up for it. My old roommate used to make them for me sometimes when he was in the mood, but I always fuck ‘em up when I try to do it so I haven’t had pancakes since he moved out.” Dean hasn’t agreed yet (though he’s going to) but Charlie is grinning like he’s made a promise. There’s no way he could refuse her pancakes.

“New roommate not so big on cooking for you?”

Charlie laughs. “What new roommate? Kevin only left like a week and a half ago, and I haven’t been able to find anyone else looking to rent who doesn’t weird me out. I’ll wait until I find someone who doesn’t suck.”

This has got to be too good to be true. It has to. There is no way the only person in the entire world that Dean socializes with, the one person he thought to call in a crisis, happens to have a room for rent right when he’s reached his limits for his terrible accommodations. There has to be some flaw in this. There must be. “Well then I guess we better make some pancakes,” Dean says. He doesn’t want to seem too eager. Too desperate. He needs to think about this before he mentions his own housing search.

Charlie gets a pack of bacon out of the fridge and pulls out the ingredients he asks for, letting him direct her around the kitchen while he makes the batter. Pancakes are simple. He knew that even before he started working for Benny. It was one of the first things he learned how to cook from scratch when John hit the bottle hard, one of the easiest things to get Sammy to eat when he was little and whiny. Sam was a good kid, but he was so young when things went bad that he didn’t really understand that Dean was limited in what he could provide. He was only eight by the time John gave up on being a functional alcoholic and went straight for alcoholic, so Sam was four. Four year olds shouldn’t have to care about that stuff.

Once the pan is heated up and the batter mixed, the kitchen starts to fill with the delicious smell of sizzling bacon. Dean makes pancakes one at a time in a small fry pan and then throws them on a baking sheet in the oven to keep warm. It’s always better if you can eat everything at once, but there just isn’t room here to make a whole mess of pancakes at the same time. He had a temporary gig as a short order cook once and he’d have like a dozen pancakes going at a time there, but they had a big flat top to work with. That was an okay job, except one of the guys who worked the overnight shifts creeped Dean out something fierce and overnights were the only time Dean could get reliable shifts, so he didn’t stick around long. He was probably only in that town for about three weeks before he decided it wasn’t gonna work out.

Dean doesn’t bring the roommate situation up until they’re sitting back at Charlie’s tiny kitchen table with stacks of pancakes and crispy strips of bacon. Charlie slathers hers in butter and drizzles syrup on sparingly, but Dean drowns his. A good fluffy pancake soaks up so much syrup. That’s where it’s at.

“So what exactly are you looking for in a roommate?” he asks casually, taking a bite of his pancakes to force himself to let her answer before continuing. He really just wants to ask if he can be her roommate, but Dean’s been disappointed enough in his life to be wary of optimism.

“Omega or beta, for starters,” she says. “I could live with an alpha I knew well and trusted, maybe, but there’s no way I’m letting one I don’t know inside my home. Too big of a risk. Omega would be ideal, ‘cause betas don’t always understand the heat thing and it’s just easier not to have to explain shit. Someone who can deal with me being up until all hours playing video games when I get deep into something new. Kevin was just like me, a giant nerd, and he was usually up on his computer when I was, so that wasn’t ever an issue for us. And someone I can actually hang out with. Everyone who has contacted me about the room has been totally not my kind of person. If I’m going to be sharing my home with someone then I need to be able to be in the same room with them without contemplating murder. You know, the basics.”

“Would you say I meet those qualifications?” Dean asks hesitantly.

“Dude yes. If you were looking for a place I’d give you a key right now.”

“Seriously? Even though you barely know me and you question whether I gave you my real last name?” Dean teases, using humour to cover up his anxiety.

“Wait are you actually asking? You wanna move?”

“Charlie, I’m living in a motel right now, and there’s a terrifying alpha a few doors down who is just waiting for an opportunity to mate me regardless of whether I want that. I’d have moved already if I’d found a place that was better than what I have. But it’s not like I have a ton of money to rent a place by myself, and I don’t own any furniture so I haven’t really had the resources to make it happen.”

“And you didn’t mention this before because why?” Charlie demands, rolling her eyes.

“Because I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“God you’re difficult,” she sighs. “Look, you can sleep on the couch until we can get you a bed, and we’ll just figure it out as we go. You only need to furnish your room, so that’s way easier than amassing stuff for a whole apartment. Let’s go get the rest of your stuff from the motel after breakfast.”

“That easy, huh?” Dean laments.

“Yes, and if you wait this long to ask for help again I’m going to kick your ass.” She’s tiny, but the look in her eyes makes Dean believe she could do it.

“Noted. But isn’t it gonna be annoying having someone sleeping on your couch for a while?”

Charlie sets her fork down and fixes him with the most murderous gaze. “Less annoying than knowing my friend is sleeping in a shitty motel where he’s terrified all the time. Shut up and eat, kiddo.”

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes, but his heart feels fuller than it has at any point in recent memory. When Charlie isn’t looking, he smiles.


	11. To Sleep, Perchance, To Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to get to post on this trip, but KreweOfImp and I were supposed to fly to Chicago tonight and our flight got cancelled. We're in Pittsburgh for the evening enjoying the hospitality of her college bestie and since it is a lazy kind of afternoon, I have time!
> 
> I neglected to mention in the notes on the previous chapter, but the church signboard that said "You Have Friends Here" is a  
> sign I saw in real life, and is the entire inspiration for this fic. They've had a couple other clever ones I'll try to work in if it suits

Charlie is an excellent roommate. Dean bases this on his absolutely zero experience living with anyone at all other than his immediate family in past, but he’s entirely sure of it. She never goes in to work as early as Dean does (in her words, her talents lie more to the technological than the culinary) but she always makes sure the coffee maker is ready to go so Dean can drink a cup or two before he leaves. She’s perfectly happy to give Dean his space but she’s also always right there when he feels like he really doesn’t want to be alone which is more often than he’d care to admit. She likes her pizza the same way Dean does, she’s always down for a beer after work, and after her initial shock at how few movies and TV shows Dean has seen over the past handful of years, she is thoroughly dedicated to helping him fill the gaps in his knowledge. Pretty much any time they’re both home they’re binge-watching something that Charlie thinks he can’t do without. Except, of course, when she’s catching him up on all the video games he’s never played or even heard of.

And there’s less superficial things too, things Dean’s never had to think about. She keeps the apartment tidy and Dean finds it easy to follow her example. He’s never really had a place that was anything better than a hole in the wall except when he lived at home with John and Sam, and as much as he prefers a clean home he learned pretty fast that cleaning up after John usually got interpreted as an insult and came with punches he wasn’t always prepared to dodge. Once, Dean tried to point out that he was making himself useful, which earned him a look from John so dark that Dean never bothered cleaning up when John was conscious again. All his old apartments were dirty on a level he could never hope to fix, or extended stay motels like the Robin Hood, where there wasn’t a point to bothering.

Charlie’s apartment (Charlie and Dean’s apartment, which he is still getting used to saying) gleams like the sun, surfaces clean and polished, shelves dusted, counters cleaned and toilet scrubbed and beds made like real live adults live there. Dean’s still sleeping on the couch, but he folds up his blankets every morning when he gets up so it can serve its original purpose the rest of the time. He’s got all his clothes hung up in the closet in what will eventually be his room though, and that feels like a luxury. Soon, hopefully, he’ll find a deal on a bed and can give Charlie unfettered access to her living room again, but for the time being, things are awesome as they are.

Dean knows he’s still having the nightmares, because they are so vivid and jarring in his sleep, and also because there is no mistaking that cold sweat that clings to his skin when he wakes up scrambling. Once or twice since he moved in, Dean’s sure he screamed in his sleep because the scream he let out in the dream sounded far too loud to be imagined. Charlie didn’t say a word the next morning, though she looked at him in a soft way that took him a moment to process. It wasn’t pity, not the emotion he’s used to people regarding him with, nor was it annoyance at having been woken up by a grown man afraid of the dark. Empathy, he thinks, or sympathy at least. Genuine concern. He’s still not used to it.

Today, Charlie is at work and Dean is not, and he’s comfortable with the silence in the apartment in a way that he never really was before. Silence in the motel usually only came in the middle of the night when Dean ought to be sleeping, and that was usually a result of Dean waking up from one of those nightmares. But silence in the middle of the afternoon is unfamiliar. It is peaceful. Dean’s got a book on his lap, one he borrowed from Charlie’s shelf after she insisted he should read it. Something about the crew of a ship that is very similar to but definitely not one of the ones from Star Trek, who slowly begin to realize they’re actually on a television show.  It’s a bit confusing, but it’s immersive and whimsical (Dean isn’t sure he’s every used that word before but it definitely applies). So immersive, in fact, that Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone rings.

He’s even more surprised that it’s Sam’s number on his call display.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says, marking the page with a finger. He can’t imagine they’ll be on the phone long, considering how many times he’s called Sam and not gotten a call back. Kid’s so busy he can’t even send a text.

“It’s Sam,” his brother replies flatly, unimpressed.

Super. Dean does his best to brush it off.

“Sure thing, Sam. How’s things out in sunny California?”

“So busy lately,” Sam informs him. “But I’m graduating in a couple of months, so I’ll finally get to catch my breath.”

“That’s awesome!” Dean exclaims. He doesn’t even have to embellish the enthusiasm. Sam’s wanted this for years. He’s going to be the big shot lawyer he always dreamed of. Pretty good for a kid with two dead parents and a deadbeat brother.

Sam laughs softly. The phone mutes it somewhat, but it’s still audible on Dean’s end. “Yeah, it’s definitely awesome. Hey, listen, I was thinking maybe you could come out to the coast for graduation. I know we haven’t seen each other in a few years, but it would really mean a lot to me if you were there.”

“It’d be a pretty long drive, Sam. A couple days at least. I’m not sure I could get that much time off work. I just started this job not too long ago and I’ve already had to take time off for shit I can’t avoid.” He’s not about to tell his brother he went into heat and couldn’t go to work for almost a week.

“I was actually thinking you’d fly out,” Sam says.

“Right. Like I’ve got money for plane tickets. I don’t know if you know this, but an unmated omega with a GED he got by the skin of his teeth isn’t exactly in high demand these days. I’m sleeping on a friend’s couch.” It’s funny, because he’s been calling his brother for a long ass time now trying to get in touch because he feels like he should, because you’re supposed to be close to family and he hates that Sam is all he has left and they never talk, but he’s wishing Sam hadn’t called at all right now.

“If money is a problem I could—“

“I’m not borrowing money from my kid brother,” Dean says, calmly but firmly. He doesn’t have much dignity left, but that’s a bridge too far.

“Cool. That’s great. You know, I get that things weren’t perfect when we were growing up but I always kinda felt like you were the one person in my life that wasn’t going to let me down. I figured you might be able to put your bullshit aside for a couple of days to come support me for this, but apparently your stupid pride is more important than that.”

Sam hangs up before Dean can say another word, which is good because this could easily devolve into something more vicious. He loves Sam, he really does, but he’s got it so easy it’s like he can’t even see what Dean lives with. And some of it, he can’t. Most of it he has no idea about and Dean’s not about to start talking. But he saw how John was even though Dean tried to shelter him from it, and he’s lived in the world long enough that he can’t avoid knowing what it’s like for an omega sometimes. Dean’s experiences may not be universal but they’re sure as hell not unique. Every omega out there has at least one story of a time they lost out on a job because they wanted someone ‘more reliable’ who wouldn’t miss out on work because of heats, or who has had their opinions dismissed because omegas are ‘too emotional’. Dean doesn’t even have to bring up the other stuff, the stuff he doesn’t talk about, to paint a picture of what it’s been like for him.

It’s not fair. Sam has no idea how hard it’s been for Dean to find work like this. He’s never had a job he actually enjoys before, and never one where he feels like he’s actually good at it. And now Sam’s pissed off that he can’t just up and fly out to the coast with almost no warning, after not returning his calls for weeks, after not seeing him for years?

If Dean were calmer right now, he might remind himself that he hasn’t actually told Sam where he is at any point recent history, so it’s at least as much his own fault that they haven’t seen each other, but he’s anything but calm. It’s the middle of the afternoon but he wants to get blind drunk right now just so he doesn’t have to feel it. He wants to punch things. He wants to retreat inside himself and stuff all the emotions down until he forgets they exist.

He doesn’t get to do any of those things, because the deadbolts start unlocking and Charlie comes in with pizza and a box from the bakery.

“Put away the book nerdface, it’s time for pies of both the pizza and the dessert variety!” She exclaims, kicking the door shut behind her. “Can you get the locks? My hands are kinda full and woah, hey, you okay Dean?”

“I’m fine,” Dean lies. He locks the door like she requested; one, two, three, and the chain, and he knows she sees right through the lie before he even turns back around.

“Uh huh, sure. Sit down. Talk.” Charlie doesn’t even wait to see if she’s obeyed. She grabs plates and the pizza boxes and joins Dean in the living room, and stares daggers at him until he feels compelled to speak.

“I just got off the phone with my brother, and it wasn’t a great conversation, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

“What happened?” Charlie presses, unperturbed. She puts two slices of meat lovers and one of sausage and mushroom on Dean’s plate and hands it over.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says with his mouth full.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to hulk smash?”

Dean doesn’t have a good answer for that.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats.

“Dude, it is clearly not nothing.” Charlie, at least, finishes chewing before she talks. “You are possibly the least chill omega I’ve ever met, but even you don’t get all worked up over actually nothing. Sure, maybe more worked up than someone else might, but you don’t just manufacture shit.”

Dean takes another bite of pizza, a big one, and for once does not speak with his mouth full as an excuse to buy time before speaking. He hates that she’s right. He hates that he just barely moved in here and she can already read him like a book. He hates that he has to talk about feelings.

“Sam’s just being an asshole and acting like I’m the asshole. It’s not a big deal, really. He wants me to come out to California for his graduation, but it’s not like I’ve got the cash for that, and it’s the first time he’s called me back in like a month so it’s kinda shitty for him to flip out at me about it.”

“Okay, yep, see why you’re annoyed at that. You think you might wanna call him back and talk it out? Your brother only graduates from college once. You should be there for that, but it sounds like you’ve got some stuff to get off your chest too.”

“Charles, I can’t even afford a bed. It’s not exactly a good time for me to be taking a trip. I’ll talk to him later when he’s not being such a dick about it. He’ll just have to understand where I’m at.”

Dean hates that he feels so much better after talking it out with Charlie.

“Ooh, speaking of which! I got you a lead on a bed!” she exclaims.

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s this guy I did a website for a while ago, we still chat when he needs help updating it. Runs one of those overstock places, for stuff the bigger stores can’t sell through? Anyway he’s got a bunch of mattresses in and they’re not moving, so he’s agreed to sell me one at a discount if we can get someone to pick it up this weekend before his next shipment of stuff comes in.  He made it sound more like we’d be doing him a favour than the other way around.”

“That’s awesome, except I don’t know anyone with a truck to get a mattress in on short notice,” Dean gripes. Even when he gets good news it’s still a problem.

“Uh, yes you do,” Charlie informs him.

“I don’t though.”

“Right, I forgot, you don’t interact with other human beings ever.” Dean can practically hear her eyes rolling in the tone of her voice. “Benny has a pickup. I’m sure he’d help you out. Hell, I’m 95% sure he’d kick your ass if he found out you didn’t ask him.”

“That sounds about right. The kicking my ass thing, anyway. The first time I met him he told me if I called him sir again he’d smack me so hard my head spun.”

Charlie snorts a truly unappealing laugh. “Yep, that’s Benny alright. Pick up your phone and call him, doofus. If you’re not going to call your brother you need to at least do this thing.”

“What would I ever do without you?” Dean says, feeling more heartfelt than sarcastic at this exact moment.

“Awwww don’t go getting all soft on me now. You’ve got a reputation to keep up.” She throws her arms around him, nearly toppling the plate of pizza on his lap, but Dean doesn’t protest at all. He doesn’t mind the hug. In fact, if he lets himself think about it, he kinda likes it. She’s smaller than him and doesn’t have the bonecrushing strength of someone like Sam, but she hugs like she means it and she doesn’t let go until Dean feels well and truly appreciated.

Dean tries not to think about the last time someone hugged him, and instead busies himself with calling Benny’s cell.

“Hey Dean!” Benny answers enthusiastically. “What’s up? You never call me on your day off.”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean replies with hesitation. “Don’t stress, everything’s fine. Just, uh, Charlie found me a lead on a bed and I need to get my hands on a truck to go pick it up before Sunday, and I heard you’ve got a pickup you might volunteer for the cause. If you’re not busy.”

“Well jeez, is that all?” Benny’s laugh reverberates loud enough that Charlie can probably hear it clear as a bell at the other end of the couch. “No sweat! Hell, whenever you want just say the word and we’ll make it happen. What did you have in mind?”

Dean pulls the phone away from his head for a moment to talk to Charlie. “When did this guy say we could come get it?”

“They’re open until like seven or something, so basically whenever. I mean, we could go now.”

“I don’t know, that’s kinda short notice for Benny—Hey!” Dean cuts off as Charlie grabs the phone out of his hand.

“Hey Benny. Yeah you know the overstock place on Willingdon? Excess Cargo? Wanna meet us there in like, 20? Okay sure, that makes sense. See you in a few!” She ends the all and hands Dean back his phone. “Benny is going to come pick us up because there’s no point in three people taking two cars to one destination. You’re sleeping on a brand new mattress tonight, big shot.”

“Thanks, Charles,” Dean replies warmly. He hugs her again just for good measure.

~*~

The overstock place with the surplus mattresses isn’t actually that far from Charlie and Dean’s place. Definitely too far to walk with a mattress obviously, but they’re only in Benny’s old pickup for a few minutes before he signals right and pulls into a parking lot. Charlie hops out as soon as he kills the engine and goes running to find her man on the inside, leaving Benny and Dean to stroll along behind her.

“Glad things are finally looking up for you brother,” Benny offers. “You getting a frame too or just the mattress and boxspring?”

“Hell if I know. Charlie just told me about this bargain like five minutes before I called you. Didn’t really get time to ask many questions. Important thing is it’ll be a bed that’s mine and I won’t have to hog Charlie’s couch anymore.”

“That’s a solid win,” Benny replies.

“It is at that,” Dean agrees. At that moment, Charlie comes bounding over to them, shortly followed by a bland looking dude with a receding hairline.  He supposes this is the guy Charlie built the website for.

“So I hear you need a mattress,” the guy says, skipping right over the formalities and getting directly to business. “I got more in the stock room than I can handle and I got new stock coming in on Monday, so it looks like this is a lucky day for both of us. What size you looking for?”

“Size is less of a factor than price. I don’t have a huge budget to work with,” Dean replies, stomping down the shame. He needs this. He needs a win.

“Well, tell you what kid, gimme a number and I’ll see what I can get you out the door with. Charlie’s been good to me. I think I can pay it forward a bit.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Charlie beaming brighter than the sun. He does some quick mental math, thinking about what he’s got in his bank account, plus the cash he has stashed under the spare tire in the Impala’s trunk. Never know when he’s gonna be in such a tight spot that banks aren’t an option.

“I got about $300 to work with, give or take.” Dean’s never bought a bed before. He has no idea what that’ll get him. Is he lowballing it too much? Is that going to send him home with a narrow single, barely long enough for an adult man to lie on, let alone get comfortable on? The store owner just gives him a knowing nod, his face devoid of judgement, and pulls a calculator out of his shirt pocket. Dean has never met a person who carries a calculator in their pocket before, and he never imagined anyone would in the age of smartphones, but that’s exactly what the dude does.

After punching in a series of numbers and calculating things Dean can’t fathom, he puts the calculator away and throws a brief grin at Charlie. “For three, I can do you a floor model queen and box spring. The box spring has a bit of damage on one corner but you’ll never see it if you put that side against the wall, and the fabrics don’t match but you don’t strike me as the type of guy who cares if he’s got stripes on his mattress and flowers on his boxspring. And because I like you, I’ll throw in a frame. Nothin fancy, mind.”

Knowing nothing at all about the going price for mattresses, Dean feels like that’s a damn good bargain. “You got yourself a deal,” Dean replies. More enthusiasm filters through into his words that he planned on, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll sleep on a bed tonight, even if he won’t have sheets or anything like that. The blankets he’s been using on Charlie’s couch will be good enough for now. It’s hard to remember what excitement feels like at this point, but he thinks it might be a little like this.

An hour or so later, Dean has a bed frame, box spring and mattress in his bedroom, blankets spread out in mockery of proper bedding, and Charlie’s spare pillow perched at the head of the first bed he’ll sleep in that’s ever been truly his. His wallet is lighter, but so is his heart, and when Charlie throws an arm around his shoulder to drag him back into the living room for video games, he’s more relaxed than he’s been since he set foot in this town.


	12. Not Raised By Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey remember when I used to write ever and also reply to comments on AO3 sometimes? No? Me neither. Lets see if we can remedy that

Dean is real good at identifying shifty, untrustworthy people on first impressions. It’s been a necessity for him since he left Lawrence, the thing that’s kept him safe in a whole lot of situations where it easily could have gone otherwise. It’s not always easy and the skill took him a while to hone, but it’s there when he needs it.

You’d think, given his well-honed people reading skills, Dean would be equally skilled at noticing when someone is on his side, but no. Mostly his brain tells him to regard those people as ones who are potential but less pressing dangers.

There is a distinct possibility that he has no skills at all and is in fact, paranoid.

In any case, the short, dark eyed man with the receding hairline that walks into the bakery on this particular afternoon sets all his bells ringing from the second he comes into view. There’s something rat-like and devious about the way he casts his eyes around the room, checking out basically everything except the pastries on display. He doesn’t appear to like what he sees but his face doesn’t actually change much, so it’s possible he’s just got a resting sneer. Either way, there’s something other than Dean’s possible lack of people reading skills telling him that this isn’t a man he wants to trust or even actually speak to. Unfortunately, he eventually gives up his furtive search of the rest of the shop and turns his attention to the display case and the man behind it.

He’s casual as can be as he approaches, sauntering more than walking, like the distance to be travelled is of no consequence and he’ll get there whenever he gets there. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his heavy black overcoat, which is unbuttoned to show a black shirt, black tie, and of course, black trousers. Normally Dean would say that kind of monochrome palette looks lazy, but on this guy it manages to be both pretentious and boring at the same time.

“Hi,” Dean offers in greeting, sending up silent prayer that this is a short interaction. A customer is a customer, but he’s really not interested in this oily, unctuous creature being in his space any longer than necessary. “What can I get you?”

“Is the owner in?” The man asks in a British accent, dispensing with the pleasantries entirely. His hands don’t leave his pockets, and his eyes don’t leave Dean’s face.

“No, sorry. He’s got the day off today,” Dean replies. A gust of air follows another customer into the shop, giving Dean the opportunity to ascertain that the man in black is, at least, not an alpha. It would have surprised Dean if he was, given his stature, but he knows from personal experience that one’s designation is not a pure indicator of all physical characteristics. Beta, then, from the scent, but he carries himself like he thinks he’s in charge whether biology dictates it or not.

The man makes a dismissive sort of hmmph sound, a look of displeasure on his face, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Were you looking to make a bulk order?” Dean asks. Benny doesn’t have to handle those things personally, but a lot of people think he does, so it’s not uncommon for people to ask for him specifically.

“No, my dear boy, I am not.”

Dean is tired of this already. He has customers to serve, and every second he spends talking to this smug little prick makes his skin crawl.

“Did you want to leave a message? A card? I’ll make sure he gets it when he’s back in.” It’s as dismissive as he can really justify being in this particular scenario, but what he really wants to do is to tell the guy to take a hike.

“That won’t be necessary,” the creep assures him. “I’ll come back when I can speak to him directly. Taa,” he says with a wave over his shoulder turning for the door and narrowly missing another customer with his shoulder on his way out.

Dean puts on his best customer service face for the lady who comes up to the counter next and does his damnedest to put the odd interaction behind him, but for the rest of the day he feels like there’s someone watching him from over his shoulder, and he doesn’t shake it until he’s behind three deadbolts and a chain.

It doesn’t hurt, exactly, that a bed-in-a-bag set has mysteriously appeared in his room and he now has sheets, a comforter, two pillows and a bed skirt. He could take or leave the skirt, but the rest of it is fantastic. Charlie, miraculously, has no idea how it got there and, and will only say that she didn’t buy it.

Whoever it was knows Dean well enough to know the only way to get him to accept a gift he doesn’t think he deserves is to make sure he doesn’t have a chance to refuse it.

~*~

Of course when things are going well for Dean, that’s when something always knocks him on his ass.

The first night sleeping in his brand new sheets is kinda marvelous. No more motel sheets that look clean to the naked eye but would horrify a person under a black light. No more throw blankets and couch cushions. An actual bed with actual sheets and a proper comforter to curl up under. It’s like wrapping himself up in a cocoon, only when he wakes up he’s not a caterpillar become butterfly, he’s just a human person who feels like he slept properly for once ever. Still a marked improvement.

There’s just that pesky thing where today’s the day he goes into heat.

Don’t ask Dean how he knows it’s coming. He sure as fuck didn’t last time, but his biology has always been pure nonsense anyway. Today he wakes up with an undeniable knowledge that he’s about to go into heat. He’s not there yet, but it’s coming.

As Dean gets himself out of bed to make breakfast and ensure there’s some food in his belly before he becomes useless, he wonders if that’s what it’s like for other omegas. Not the irregular nonsense part, but the thing where sometimes he can tell it’s coming before it even actually hits. Are there things they know to recognize? Does an omega who actually has an omega parent get told about these things? There was a seminar in high school for anyone who had presented as omega where they went presumably into more detail than they did in just plain health class, but of course Dean hadn’t presented then so he has no idea what they talked about. He should probably ask Charlie but that seems intrusive and weird. They’re friends and roommates and coworkers but that doesn’t mean she’s going to want to swap reproductive cycle stories with him.

While he’s waiting for coffee to brew, he calls Benny to let him know he won’t be making it in to work for an indeterminate number of days.

“Damn, already?” Benny exclaims, not unkindly or judgementally but definitely surprised.

“Yeah, it doesn’t seem to follow any kind of actual pattern with me. I’ll be back in as soon as I can, Benny."

“Don’t sweat it.” There is no question in Dean’s mind that Benny is sincere. “You gimme a call when you’re back on your feet and we’ll get you back in here. Make sure Charlie takes good care of you.”

Dean smiles as he hangs up the phone. He hadn’t thought about that. Having an omega roommate means he’s got someone safe to look out for him while he’s incapacitated. He doesn’t plan to let her wait on him like Castiel did last time around, but at least there’s someone who can go to the grocery store, and it means he doesn’t have to barricade himself in his bedroom with a wall of furniture this time. It’ll be a nice change of pace. Not that he’s looking forward to his heat at all, obviously, but he’s less anxious about it than previous ones.

Its times like this he thinks back to how scared he was the first time he went into heat. All the memories of the actual heat are so vague he can’t really differentiate it from any of the others but the fear, that’s distinct. John screaming obscenities at him through the bedroom door, slurring with both the cadence o his speech and the words he chose. Nobody there to tell him that what his body was going through was normal and healthy, just abuse through a wooden door.  He didn’t know how to take care of himself, how to make it less painful and less overwhelming, how long it would last.

He has been lonely most of his life, but he has never felt as alone as he did that day.

Charlie stumbles out of bed not too long after Dean sits down with his second cup of coffee.

“What are you doin home,kid?” she demands sleepily, ignoring as always the fact that he is several years older than her.

“Not going to work for the next couple of days,” he tells her. She hesitates, processing, but realization dawns on her pretty damn quickly for someone who hasn’t had coffee yet. It can probably be attributed to the jaw splitting yawn and corresponding deep breath. Dean’s sure he smells like heat even if he can’t pick up on the scent himself.

“Dude that sucks. You got sugar in that coffee?”

Dean makes a face. “No, why? I take my coffee black. You know that.”

“Because you’re going into heat, braintrust,” Charlie replies, rolling her eyes and flouncing over to the table with her bathrobe flapping behind her. “You need calories. Do you know how much extra energy an omega burns going through a heat?”

“Uh…” Dean replies carefully. “No?”

“Oh my god who raised you?” Charlie teases, but the second she sees the shamed look on his face she softens. “Oh honey. No. Don’t make that face. This isn’t your fault. Okay. Um. If you don’t want sugar in your coffee that’s cool, but I’m gonna make you a big breakfast before I go to work and I’m gonna pack you a lunch too. Eat snacks. Realistically you should probably eat an additional forty to fifty per cent of what you normally eat in a day, and obviously extra water. I mean don’t start weighing your food and trying to do the math or anything. I usually just do an extra full meal and a snack.”

“I can do that,” Dean replies. Apparently, Dean doesn’t even have to ask. He just has to be oblivious and she’ll fill in the blanks.

Dean is a lucky, lucky omega.

~*~

Dean is not a lucky omega. Dean is a cursed omega who is doomed to suffer, and his entire life is awful. At least, that’s how he feels a few hours after Charlie leaves for work when his muscles ache and he’s drenched in sweat and he never wants to touch his dick again but his body is already demanding more stimulation. It’s a low-grade demand at the moment though, more of a request, so he ignores it as best he can and pulls himself upright. It’s got to be nearly mid-day at this point though he can’t be bothered to find his phone to check, but his stomach rumbles and Charlie’s words about increased calorie needs spring to mind. There’s a sandwich in the fridge and matzo ball soup ready to throw in the microwave, plus a slice of pie from Lafitte’s for after. Charlie promised to bring home something good, whatever that means, so he knows dinner is going to be satisfying even if the furious masturbation he’ll be engaging in this afternoon won’t be. 

Dean sits down and demolishes his sandwich while he waits for the matzo ball soup to heat up. Charlie said it’s her grandmother’s recipe, and that nobody does comfort food like Jewish grandmothers, so even in the fog of his heat he’s looking forward to it. Apparently, she keeps some in the freezer at all times for occasions just such as this. Dean expects he’ll have to learn how to make it at some point, if only to assist in replenishing the supply. In the meantime though, the sandwich is pretty damn good. There’s like three kinds of cheese on it, plus the last of the ham from when Dean mad eggs benedict over the weekend. He never would have tried making a hollandaise sauce before he started working for Benny, but the idea of cooking egg yolks over a double boiler low and slow isn’t intimidating anymore. None of the kitchen stuff is, really, even the stuff he has no idea how to do. Benny is a good teacher, patient and kind, and even when Dean fucks up he’s not too hard on him. And it’s not like he fucks up much, either, which is a surprise to at least one of them, but it means Dean’s confidence is growing by leaps and bounds. Benny asks him to make something he hasn’t made before and he says yes without hesitating. Charlie wants him to make something specific and outlandish for Sunday breakfast and he is instantly on google looking for recipes. For once in his life, it feels like there’s something Dean is good at.

When the microwave dings, there is nothing left of his sandwich except crumbs and the taste of cheese on his lips. He’s forced to eat the soup slower so he doesn’t burn his mouth, but that’s the only think keeping him from tipping the bowl up to his lips and drinking the whole serving down. It’s amazing, truly. The broth is rich and flavorful with bits of chicken and veggies, and he’s never had matzo before today but he’s kinda sure this is the best matzo on the entire earth and he will fight anyone who says otherwise. Charlie definitely knows what she’s talking about when it comes to comfort food. Dean has no idea why this increased calorie thing never occurred to him before. It should have been entirely obvious. But then, Dean’s tried to think about his heats as little as possible before now, so it’s not like he ever did a debrief afterwards to try to figure out how to make them suck less, and it’s not like he’s had any kindred spirits to talk to before now.

Dean at least tries to make himself slow down and savor the pie, which is blackberry peach with a crumble topping. It’s delicious like everything that comes out of Benny’s kitchen, but the only reason he doesn’t wolf it down without chewing is because he’s starting to feel something approaching full. He’s gonna finish every bite, obviously, because he never wastes pie and also because Charlie gives good advice and expects that it be heeded, but he’s not ravenous anymore.

Which is fantastic, because that’s about how much time his body has allotted for eating, and the request for stimulation has been moving up the scale from ‘polite’ past ‘insistent’ and is now bordering on ‘fervent demand.’

Dean hauls himself back to the bedroom with a heavy sigh, but at least he’s got the energy to do something about it.

~*~

By some heavenly miracle, Dean wakes up the next morning feeling for all intents and purposes, normal. There is no insatiable need burning in his veins, he’s not drenched in sweat, and his brain doesn’t feel like its reverted to the primal setting that allows for a constant cycle of eat-fuck-sleep and nothing else. His body still aches which is to be expected, and he’s hungrier than he’d be on a normal morning, but it seems safe to say that he’s not in heat anymore.

Most other omegas don’t have heats that run this short, but then again, Dean’s not most omegas.

Charlie is in the kitchen making a mountain of food when he staggers out of his room, still pulling a shirt on over his head. She grins in his direction when she hears him yawn.

“How you doin this morning?”

“Way better,” Dean assures her. “I actually think my heat broke?”

Charlie laughs. “After one day? Get out.”

“No I’m serious. Look, I don’t really know what’s normal, as you may have figured out from my lack of knowledge about the food thing I didn’t exactly get a stellar education about this shit, but I know that what’s normal for me is for everything to be patently abnormal. I go into heat at random and unpredictable times, it lasts for a random number of days, and the only thing that’s consistent is how inconsistent they are. Last time I thought I was getting the flu ‘cause I was dizzy and sweaty all morning, this time I knew immediately that I was in heat. None of it makes sense. Not a damn thing.” Dean grabs a cup of coffee and, just to show Charlie he was listening, throws a spoonful of sugar in. It’s cloyingly sweet on his tongue, but he probably needs the calories even if he’s not currently in heat.

“I’m sorry Dean. I shouldn’t have made fun of you yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m still standing. And in answer to that question, when it comes to all this heat shit, technically nobody raised me. I either figured it out on my own or I didn’t figure it out.” Dean shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but deep down he knows it does.

“Okay good, but I’m still sorry. And more importantly, I’m gonna remedy all that. I’ll get you a copy of the book my mom gave me when I presented. It’ll clear a lot of stuff up. The illustrations are _hilariously_ outdated but you should read it, and then you’ll have an idea of what questions to ask.”

“They wrote books about this stuff?” Dean exclaims.

“Well yeah,” Charlie replies. “Just because we’re such a small percentage of the population doesn’t mean it’s not important. Scientists love writing books about stuff. I’m surprised they didn’t cover this stuff in school for you, actually.”

“Well,” Dean says with a cringe. “I mean, they covered the basics in health class, but I didn’t present until I was 19, so I never got to go to the omega sessions.”

Charlie gets this look on her face like she can’t decide if she wants to cry or hit someone. “Well forget all that,” she says instead. “Leave everything to little old me.” She hugs him, tighter than he could believe her little arms are capable of, and Dean hugs back just as hard, because Charlie is somehow the little sister he never wanted and the big sister he always needed, all wrapped up in one.


	13. Just Pick Up The Phone

It shouldn’t be this difficult to just pick up the damn phone and make a call, but apparently, it is.

It’d be easier if Dean actually wanted to call Sam, of course. That would solve a lot of problems. Like, at least 90% of the problems would be solved if Dean wanted to do this thing. But he does not. He wants Sam to call him, because Sam’s the one who is being a huge dick for no good reason, and Sam’s the one who didn’t return his calls for weeks, and Sam’s the one who is being unreasonable. So what Dean would really like to do is let Sam sit there waiting until hell freezes over if he’s expecting any kind of apology, or better yet, for Sam to pick up the phone and deliver his own goddamned sorry.

And he would have gotten away for it too, if it weren’t for that meddling roommate.

Charlie is a lovely girl. Truly. Dean likes her a great deal, and he kinda dislikes most people these days so that in and of itself is fairly high praise. She is kind and she is a giant geek and she pulled Dean’s ass out of the fire in an almost literal sense so he probably owes her one or seven or who’s counting, but dang can she meddle. She meddles like she was born to it. She meddles as easy as breathing. And what’s worse, she’s so good at getting Dean talking (because he hasn’t really opened up to another human being since forever so there’s a lot to open up about once you get him going) that sometimes he doesn’t even realize she’s meddling until it’s past tense. Then she’s no longer meddling, she has meddled, the meddling is done. Kinda hard to intercept something after it’s already passed you by.

Charlie has decided, after several instances of meddling that Dean recognized and possibly more that he didn’t even notice, that Dean needs to call Sam.

“You’re stubborn,” She informs him, which, painfully obvious but okay. “And so’s your brother.” Dean thinks this is a fairly astute observation considering she’s never met Sam, but then again she’s only basing it on what Dean has to say about Sam so maybe she only thinks he’s stubborn because Dean thinks so too. That might be relevant another time, but Charlie doesn’t leave much room for protest. “But it sounds like he might actually be more stubborn than you are, so you need to call him.”

Dean disagrees. “I disagree,” he says, because it’s true. Not the stubborn thing. She’s on the money there. But the needing to call Sam thing. Dean doesn’t agree with that at all.

“No but listen,” she carries on, “You’re wrong. And the fact that you won’t admit that you’re wrong is proof that I’m right.”

“Charlie, I love you,” Dean says, ignoring the fact that it is, in his recollection, the first time in his adult life that he has told someone he loves them, “but that makes absolutely no sense. Are you drunk? Did you get day drunk while I was at the bakery?”

“No.” She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. Look at how much you are fighting me. Look at how bullheaded and obstinate you are being, just over making a phone call. I didn’t even say you had to apologise. I just said you had to call him and talk to him. If you’re this stubborn over here, what makes you think Sam is more likely to pick up the phone and call you?”

“Because I’m more stubborn than he is,” Dean replies stubbornly. This is a losing battle and he knows it, but damned if he’s going to tell her that.

“Dean, honey, you’re a real smart boy sometimes, but you do a terrible job of applying those smarts to your own life. Sam’s not gonna know what you’re thinking unless you tell him. He won’t know why you’re mad, or what he needs to do to fix it. So you call him and you say, hey Sam, I know this graduation is important to you and I really want to be there, but I don’t have the freedom to take a bunch of time off work right now. Why don’t you tell me what day the actual ceremony is and I’ll see what I can figure out with work. I can’t promise when I’ll be able to pay you back but if I can make it work I would be grateful if you could lend me the money for a plane ticket to come out there for that. And then you explain to him why things are hard right now so he understands what an effort you are making. You can’t make him apologise, but I bet you when he understands where you’re coming from, he will.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that. If the smug smile on Charlie’s face is any indication, she is fully aware of this fact.

“Can’t fix a thing by pretending it isn’t broken,” she says softly, slugging him in the shoulder. “I’m gonna go fold laundry in my room for a little while.” Her intention is obvious, and as much as he hates the meddling and still very much does not want to do the thing, he appreciates not having an audience.

The whole time the phone is ringing, Dean hopes this is one of those times that Sam just doesn’t answer. If he doesn’t leave a voicemail then Sam either has to ignore him and look like a bigger jerk or call back without knowing what Dean wanted to say, so he’d still kinda win. That would be an acceptable outcome.

Unfortunately the phone picks up. “Hey Dean – Jess, let it go. Let me talk to my brother. Sorry.” It’s not an apology for the things Dean is pissed off about but at least it’s not open hostility. It’s not a terrible place to start. Dean hears a woman’s voice in the background, muffled, and then a door closing. “I’m glad you called,” Sam says, and his voice sounds tired and sad.

“Yeah me too,” Dean replies, surprised to find that it’s not entirely a lie. He takes a deep breath to steel himself, then gives it his all. “Listen, I get that this graduation is a big deal to you and it’s not that I don’t want to be there, but it’s a real shitty time for me to take off on a vacation. Is there a way I can come out for like, a couple days and then get back to work?” He tries to change the wording from Charlie’s suggestions just enough that it sounds like his own words, but he’s still following her script. Dean didn’t grow up in a home that did a lot of the feelings conversations. This is hardly familiar territory.

“The ceremony is on a Saturday, so what if we got you a flight out on Friday and you went home Monday?” It’s hard to be sure without seeing Sam’s face but Dean’s pretty sure he’s smiling already, just from that tiny concession.

Damn does he hate it when Charlie is right.

“I’ll see what my boss says, but I think we can make that work. And listen, I don’t know when I’d be able to pay you back, ‘cause I’m just getting back on my feet right now, but I suppose I can swallow my pride enough to borrow the money for a plane ticket.” He hates admitting it. All of it. The fact that he’s not sure when he can pay it back. The fact that he’s not living his best life right now. The fact that borrowing money is tough for him even though he can’t do this without it. Charlie would probably say something about how important it is to be vulnerable. He’s suddenly very glad she’s in the other room.

Sam laughs, not unkindly. “I don’t care about the money Dean. You’re my brother. You’re the only family I have. If I never see a dime of it back it’ll be worth it to have you there when I graduate. Besides, I figure it’s the least I can do considering I dropped this on you at the last minute like this. When do you think you’ll find out if you can take the time off?”

“I’ll talk to Benny about it at work tomorrow and I’ll give you a call in the afternoon, sound good?” Dean doesn’t mention how low it makes him feel that he can’t afford a plane ticket on his own and Sam could throw the money away if he wanted to. He’s not ready to be that vulnerable. Might never be.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam says, and it’s not an apology but it’s so sincere it might as well be. “I really hope we can make this work. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, it has Sammy,” Dean says. Sam doesn’t correct him on the nickname like he usually does. He was always Sammy as a kid and it chaffed at him once he hit his teen years, but in Dean’s mind he’s still that little brother, the one he had to look out for, even if he’s 6’4” and a lawyer now. As Dean hangs up the phone, he catches sight of Charlie peering out at him from where her bedroom door is only open a crack.

“You can come out now,” he sighs. At least if she was listening he doesn’t have to tell her how it went, but he grumbles at the fact that she already knows she was right.

~*~

Dean wishes he could say he loses himself in his work enough that the weeks leading up to his trip fly by without notice, but as busy as he is and as immersive as the baking is, he is still very much aware of the passage of time. Each day that passes brings him one day closer to seeing Sam for the first time since John’s funeral and the entire affair is so emotionally fraught that even someone like Dean who is well versed at living in denial can’t truly avoid looking at it. He tries not to think of it in terms of confrontation but there is a big voice in his head saying it would be easier if this was on Dean’s turf or at least on neutral ground. He already feels off his game going into Sam’s sphere, being in Sam’s home with Sam’s people, stepping into Sam’s life. He’ll have to meet this Jess person who is probably going to be Sam’s number one cheerleader and he has no idea what Sam has told her about how things went. It’s probably far too late to back out of the whole thing, but Dean still finds himself looking for an exit.

He shouldn’t be so apprehensive about this. Sam is his _brother_ , for fuck’s sake. He should be excited about going to visit him. He should be sappy and proud that his kid brother is going to be a lawyer out in the real world. He just can’t help feeling like it shines a very unflattering light on Dean’s own life that his baby brother has his life together, a degree and a career and a partner and a five-year plan. Dean’s got a five-day plan at best, and that’s only by merit of the fact that his work week is five days long. The envy is probably rather petty, in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes he wishes he’d got dealt Sam’s hand. Not the lawyer-California-girlfriend thing, but the part where he’s a beta. That wouldn’t solve all of Dean’s problems but it would wipe out enough of them to free up the energy to deal with the rest.

Might as well wish for a million bucks while he’s at it, for all the good it’s going to do him.

There’s a whole host of reasons he shouldn’t go. He doesn’t even own a proper suitcase to put his stuff in. What if there’s a sketchy alpha on the flight and he’s trapped in a tin can at 30,000 feet with his worst nightmare? And he feels guilty taking time off work even though Benny said it was no problem. He likes to think he’s at least a little useful, that losing him off the schedule for a few days will be noticeable, but he doesn’t exactly love the idea of leaving a gap in the plan either. Dean’s used to feeling replaceable. He’d rather he wasn’t. And what if he gets lost at the airport, or can’t find his gate for the connecting flight and never ends up in California at all?

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s spiraling until Charlie calls him out on it.

“Dude, you’re twitching like a meth-head over there. You got something on your mind or are there just bugs under your skin?”

Dean’s eyes snap over to her, so completely immersed in his mini-panic that he has no idea what is happening in the movie they’re watching. “That’s a horrifying visual, Charlie,” he informs he evasively.

“Sorry, I just. You haven’t stopped moving since we sat down. It’s not drugs is it? You’re not high? ‘Cause I’m not gonna kick you out if you are. You can tell me.” She says it like he imagines his mom would have, like she’s concerned and not disappointed, like all she’s offering is love and support. It kinda breaks what’s left of his heart.

“I’m not on drugs,” he says. “I just can’t stop thinking about everything that could go wrong with this whole California thing.”

Charlie nods sagely. “Ah yes. That.”

“You sound so fucking ominous.”

“And you sound like you’ve convinced yourself everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. That’s pretty fucking defeatist.”

There she goes, being right again.

“In my experience,” Dean says sullenly, “most of the things that can go wrong, do go wrong.”

“I can understand why you’d have that particular outlook. You’ve had a rough go. But look kid. Not everything in your life has gone wrong. You got me, don’t you? And you got Benny? You got the job he gave you cause he saw potential where all you saw was failure. You’ve got a home for the first time in I don’t know how long, you’ll have to tell me some day, we can trade tragic backstories but for now let’s just say a long time. You’ve got Cas. That sounds like a lot of things going right.” She smiles kinda smugly, like she’s just shown him up bigtime.

“I don’t ‘got’ Cas,” he snaps, “and I don’t want him. Last thing I need is some fucking knothead trying to run my life.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much, but okay. You could got him if you chose to. And I meant you got him like you got me and Benny. You know? Friends? Point is your life ain’t shambles. Is it perfect? Probably no such thing. But it doesn’t suck. Why should you assume California is gonna be one big clusterfuck? Why not try asking yourself what could go right instead of just listing all the ways it could go wrong?”

“Because I’m not generally that lucky.”

Charlie shrugs. “Luck’s half what happens to you and half what you do with it. Look I’m not gonna tell you not to stress because that’s unhelpful and also seems just wildly unlikely at this point, but seriously dude. You gotta stop getting in your own way sometimes. I guarantee it’s easier if you don’t search for things to be stressed about.”

“But there’s just so many things!” Dean exclaims, now only half serious. Her optimism is infectious even if he knows it won’t take root that easily. “I don’t even need to search.”

“You need a distraction,” Charlie announces.

“Like what?” Dean asks skeptically. He’d be hard pressed to think of anything that’ll keep his attention better than stressing about details will. It’s hard to imagine Charlie knowing him well enough at this point to do better.

“Put your shoes on and get your keys,” she instructs, stopping the movie. “I’m taking you out for ice cream.”

Suddenly, Dean can’t remember why he never bothered to have friends before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dangerousnotbroken dot tumblr dot com


	14. How The Other Half Lives

All too soon and somehow not soon enough, Dean has no more time to stress in anticipation of his trip, and the day dawns that finds him getting up early to head to the airport instead of to go to work. He’s got his clothes in a duffle bag and the stuff he needs for the plane in a backpack he borrowed from Charlie, and she keeps stealing glances at him from the driver’s seat of her little yellow Gremlin.

“What?” Dean snaps, surly in his early morning exhaustion.

“I’m gonna miss you, kid,” she says with a sappy smile.

“I’m gonna be gone for like, four days, Charles.”

“Yeah, well, you’re growing on me, okay? Just. Have fun.”

Dean isn’t sure he can promise that. They pull up at the airport with plenty of time to spare, unload Dean’s bags onto the sidewalk, and then before Dean can even pick up his backpack she’s throwing her arms around him in a deceptively strong hug. He hugs back just as tight, ruffling her red hair.

“Stay out of trouble,” he tells her.

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” she fires back with a wink. Dean watches her drive away, his heart heavy. How someone he’s only known for a couple of months has managed to carve out a place in his heart this quickly and solidify themselves there this easily, Dean will never understand, but he wouldn’t undo it if he knew how.

When the Gremlin is out of sight, Dean tosses his duffle bag over his shoulder and heads into the terminal to start his adventure.

~*~

Dean, it seems, is afraid of flying.

He’s never flown before, so it’s understandable that he didn’t actually know this, but the moment the pre-flight check starts, his heart hammers inside his ribcage and he feels like he’s going to pass out from lack of oxygen. He must look it, too, because while most of the plane is entirely unaware of their impending doom and the flight attendants seem completely unconcerned with the danger, the five-year old in the seat beside him tugs her hand away from her mother to grab the doll off her lap and hand it to Dean. He looks at her inquisitively, the most expressive face he can manage right now.

“Sarah takes my nightmares away when I’m scared. I bet she can help when you’re scared too.” She drops the doll in his lap and takes her mother’s hand again. Dean hesitates, then sees the child’s mother looking over at him with a soft smile on her face, half apology, half offered comfort. Dean’s hand finds the doll, a small fabric thing with button eyes and yarn hair. She’s well loved, worn and tired but with signs of mending at her seams.

“Thank you,” Dean says softly, voice catching in his throat.

When he looks to the window on his right, all he sees are clouds and the clear blue sky. He didn’t even notice the takeoff.

Sarah, it seems, is a little bit of magic.

~*~

It is not a restful flight. It’s certainly not comfortable. Airline seats are every bit as awful as everyone says they are and what Dean really wants to do is get drunk so he can forget where he is but he’s neither made of money, nor willing to let his guard down that far in public. Nothing smells like alpha on the plane thankfully, but Dean has gotten this far in life by remaining cautious and vigilant always. He gives the child back her doll after they reach cruising altitude and turns his attention to a book he barely processes. They serve beverages. He buys a truly unremarkable packaged meal. He tries to nap, fails.

When they start their descent into San Jose, Dean’s heart finds its way back up into his throat. Every tiny noise the plane makes sets his teeth on edge, and he’s sure every jostling movement will be the one that seals his fate. He’s being dramatic. He knows. He doesn’t care. But the child beside him with her magic doll doesn’t seem to notice anything the plane is doing. She’s perfectly content to read the books her mother brought for her, play with her doll, entertain herself. It doesn’t faze her. Is she wiser than him, or just impervious to the perils of overthinking because she’s too young to have figured out how to do it yet?

Dean doesn’t let go his death grip on the armrests until they have successfully landed and taxied to their gate, but he still feels like his entire life just flashed before his eyes, and he wishes this wasn’t how he was going into his first meeting with Sam in years.

San Jose isn’t a particularly large airport, as airports go, but it is still throngs of people in confined spaces, and it makes him fearful. Anxious. There’s so much person-scent here, he’d never smell an alpha in time to avoid them. His head is on a swivel both to look for Sam and to spot any threats before they spot him, but in the end it’s Sam who sees him first.

“Dean!” he hollers, voice booming above the din. Dean would recognize his brother’s voice after decades apart, after centuries. He knows the anxiety, the stress is still there somewhere, waiting in the wings for its turn on stage, but as soon as he lays eyes on Sam again, all of that seems to disappear for a moment.

“Sammy!“ Dean calls, jubilant. He hitches his backpack up on one shoulder and makes his way through the crowd, picking careful steps to avoid jostling passers by. Sam’s smile is bright and welcoming, his hair longer than Dean remembered, but it feels like coming home as much as anything could when you’ve been vagrant and essentially homeless for years. Dean lets himself smile too, broad and true, and he tries to forget about all the reasons that this reunion is a fraught one.

He throws an arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him down into a hug. There’s only a few inches between their heights but sometimes it feels like miles, like Sam is the adult looming over him and Dean is a child, small in stature and new to the world. He’s probably just projecting again, but hey, one of them has a real job and a real life and is a function adult, and the other lived, until very recently, in a ramshackle motel that his acquaintances thought was condemned, so, whatever. It’s a long hug, a drawn out one that is not at all out of place in an airport. Hugs here are reunions. They’re meant to be long.

When they break away, Sam grins at him. He’s truly happy. It makes Dean sad. He didn’t see enough of that kind of smile on Sam’s face growing up. Between the tragedy of losing their mother and the general horrid conditions of living with John, Sam didn’t have a ton of reasons to express joy as a child. He found reasons where he could. He was always so much more positive than Dean. But there’s only so much an optimist can do with a situation like the one they had. Dean tries to shake that off and just be glad that Sam is happy now. It still hangs over him like a cloud.

“How was the flight?” Sam asks. Small talk.

“Yeah it was, you know. A cross-country flight. Still not sure how those things stay in the air, but I didn’t die so that’s alright I guess.”

“Ever the optimist,” Sam chuckles, impervious to the irony of that statement given Dean’s previous musings. “Have you eaten?”

“I had some kind of sandwich thing on the plane. It was not worth what they charged for it. I could do with real food though.”

“We’ll stop on the way back to the house,” Sam informs him. “Jess will be home later this evening, but we can grab dinner and some beers, catch up a bit before she gets here.”

Beer has never sounded so good. Dean nods assent as they make their way to the baggage carrousel, starts trying out what parts of his life are even worth catching Sam up on.

~*~

California is at once brighter than he imagined and infinitely duller than expected. There’s a smoggy haze in the air that makes everything just that much dimmer than the mid-afternoon hour would lead one to expect, but enough sunlight cuts through to make Dean squint as he takes in his surroundings. He doesn’t have sunglasses with him, though he really should have planned for that, so he mostly peers at the world through half-closed eyes as Sam navigates the highways back to his and Jess’ home. There are about as many palm trees as television sitcoms would lead him to believe, but otherwise it just seems like any other city in America. Dirty, overpopulated, capitalistic. Flashy shows of wealth tucked in side by side with people just barely cutting it. Sam’s Prius makes next to no noise, so Dean can hear a great deal of the bustle outside. Voices. Traffic. It is all so very normal. He doesn’t know what he was expecting.

“You’ve never flown before, have you?” Sam asks. He’s pulling the car into the parking lot of a shopping complex, driving with an air of familiarity that leads Dean to believe they’re in Sam’s neighborhood.

“Never had reason,” Dean says with a shrug. He doesn’t want to talk about how poorly he handled it. Lots of people are afraid of flying. It’s not like he bailed or anything. He did it. He got here. There’s nothing to discuss.

“Thank you,” is all Sam says. He clicks the button on his car’s remote to lock the doors as they walk into the grocery store.

~*~

Sam’s house is actually not a house at all, but the upper floors of one, suited out. He says there’s a couple of students living in the lower portion, people not as far along their university path as Sam and Jess are. It still feels like a mansion to Dean when compared to the hovel he lived in before Charlie saved his ass. It makes him resentful. He tries to silence it.

It’s a modest home. Dean tries to remember that. Sam gives him the tour. Here’s the kitchen, there’s the bathroom. Guest bedroom, mundane and plainly decorated. Living room, TV in the corner. Dean gets the impression they don’t watch much TV, what with the workload and all. Small but cozy. Livable. Feels like an actual home.

Sam puts the groceries away, more small talk. His finals were difficult. Traffic on the way to the airport was lighter than he expected. He hands Dean an ice cold beer and Dean readily accepts. This whole thing is awkward, unpleasant. He wishes he were thousands of miles away.

And then suddenly it’s not awkward anymore. Dean couldn’t say what made it not awkward, but it definitely happened. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe he just needed to get his bearings. But it’s not weird small talk with a near stranger anymore, it’s shooting the breeze with his brother, the one person on this planet who should really know him, and Dean feels calmer than he has in months, possibly years. He breathes easier. He sinks into his seat like he’s not expecting to have to run away at the slightest provocation. He actually exists in this moment.

They talk about the new Star Wars movies. They talk about David Bowie. Sam talks about wanting a dog, a big silly golden retriever, and how as soon as he and Jess get their own place he’s gonna find a puppy.

“You should absolutely get a dog,” Dean tells him. “You’re basically a big puppy yourself. You guys will get along great.”

“You need a cat,” Sam announces.

“I’m allergic,” Dean reminds him. He doesn’t know how he knows that. They never had a cat. He doesn’t remember the last time he was even close to a cat.

“That’s too bad. Grown-up you seems like a cat person.”

“Grown up me needs dinner,” Dean replies.

“Oh shit, yeah, we were going to make food and I completely forgot.” Dean doesn’t say it but he’s okay with forgetting. If conversation with Sam is more engrossing than the idea of the steaks they picked up, this visit might not be as awful as he expected. “We should probably save those for tomorrow at this point. Wanna just order pizza?” The front door opens before Dean can answer. Jess saunters in, tall and lithe, her blonde hair hanging loose around her shoulders, and Sam’s face lights up.

“Dean!” Her elated voice rings out through the house and brings warmth and joy with it. She sets down the things she’s been holding, a purse and a laptop bag, and a paper sack he is almost certain contains take-out, and though Sam is already on his feet approaching her in greeting she breezes right past to make her way towards Dean. For his part, Dean barely makes it off the couch in time to catch an armful of Jess and he’s lucky he did make it to standing because although her frame is slight, she is nearly as tall as he is and he could easily see himself toppling over if she set him off balance.

“You must be Jess,” he replies flippantly, instantly taken with her cheer. “It’s good to meet you.”

“About damn time,” she replies, throwing a look over her shoulder at Sam. “He’s only been talking about you nonstop since the day we met. You’d think you were some kind of superhero to hear him tell it. I told Sam we should have brought you out for a weekend ages ago, but here we are now, so no matter. Have you boys eaten?”

“We were just about to figure out what to do for dinner,” Sam informs her. “I bought steaks but we got distracted.”

“Well good because I brought Thai food.”

It takes a few minutes to clear all the text books, binders, scrap paper, highlighters, pens, laptop cables, and empty coffee cups off the dining room table, a hazard of all the house’s inhabitants being students for sure, but before long they are gathered around cardboard boxes of rice and curry and spring rolls. The flavors are sumptuous and complex, a fragrant mix of spices and ingredients. Dean likes the chicken one with coconut milk and bamboo shoots the best, though he never though he’d be eating bamboo at any point in his life. But more than the food, more than anything else about this day, he’s enjoying the company.

“So tell us about your job,” Jess demands just as he bites off half his spring roll. “Sam says you work in a bakery?”

Dean chews quickly so he can answer, nearly inhaling bean sprouts as he does. “Yeah,” he replies when he can speak again. “I’m sort of an apprentice baker’s assistant I guess? I would have thought they’d want me to have some kind of formal training for it, ‘cause everyone else in the kitchen seems like they know exactly what they’re doing, but Benny’s doing an excellent job teaching me.”

“You mean you’re doing an excellent job learning,” Jess corrects, giving him a secret smile that says she’s on his team.

“I guess so,” Dean agrees. “I mean the first croissants I ever made were the ugliest things you’ve ever seen so it’s not like I’m a natural, but I do okay. I’ve been there for a few months now and it seems like he wants to keep me, so that’s something.”

“I don’t think I could work in a bakery,” she laments. “I would never stop eating doughnuts.”

“Dean’s more of a pie guy,” Sam chimes in. “Or at least he was the last time we were in the same state.”

Dean laughs throatily. “Not sure there’s any kind of force in the universe that could make me not like pie anymore,” he assures his brother, “even if I have now baked more of them than I ever thought possible. I could do it in my sleep at this point. Which, actually that’s a good thing, because I usually start my day at four am.”

Sam grimaces. “I don’t even get up that early to run before class, and I’m up pretty damn early.”

“I don’t love it either,” Dean agrees. “But it’s good money and I like the work. Good people, too. One of the girls that works the cash register had a spare room so we’re roommates now.”

Jess gives him a conspiratorial wink. “You mean like, _roommates?_ ”

“Definitely not. Neither of us bat for the right team for that to happen. Besides, she’s like a kid sister, you know? Except for some reason she’s the one looking after me and not the other way around.”

“Well maybe in a few months after things are all settled with graduation and everything, we can come out there and you can introduce us.” Sam doesn’t phrase it like a question, no upturn in his voice at the end of the sentence, but it’s clear all the same. ‘Am I welcome in your world’, he’s asking.

“I’d like that,” Dean tells him. He hopes he’s being truthful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dangerousnotbroken dot tumblr dot com


	15. The Other Shoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank each and every one of you for your patience. This chapter felt like pulling teeth. I had to fight with it every step of the way and it did not want to take form but we got here. I have more to say but I'll leave it for the end notes.

Dean wishes he could say he slept soundly in Sam and Jess’ spare bedroom, but the universe is rarely that kind. At least, not in Dean’s experience. He falls asleep easily, with a full belly and the warmth of family around him, but it does not last. Perhaps it’s the curry wreaking havoc on him. He’s heard people say that spicy food leads to weird dreams. Maybe it’s just the same old problems with his brain. Either way, he’s thousands of miles from where he last lay his head and somehow John still finds him, bitter and cruel and angry just the same.

Dean thinks he hears a baby crying in the church, but John’s words are hurled too fiercely for him to be sure.

It feels like he only just fell asleep but the sun streams brightly through the window when he bolts upright, flinching as if to dodge some invisible fist. He knows whose fist his mind thinks was coming, and he never did get good at dodging those. It’s nearly seven, several extra hours of sleep over what he’d get on a work day, but yesterday was long and draining what with the travel and the fear of flying and meeting his brother again for the first time, so Dean still feels like he could sleep for days. Unfortunately, there is no time for that. Sam has his graduation ceremony today. They’re going for brunch apparently, because Sam and Jess are people that go for brunch, and he hasn’t really bothered asking what the plans are beyond that. He’s here for Sam, so wherever Sam goes, that’s where Dean will be.

Even if it’s brunch.

Jess is already in the kitchen when Dean trudges out in his faded Zeppelin tee and a pair of sweats. He smiles silently and takes the mug of coffee she offers. It’s nice. She’s at the table with a mug of her own, hair piled on top of her head and a laptop in front of her, reading something intently and taking notes. Dean scrolls through the news on his phone. They don’t talk.

Silences can be so awkward. A lot of them are. Sometimes they mean something big and ugly. Something unsaid that needs to be said, or worse, something unsaid that absolutely should not be spoken but haunts the room anyway. Sometimes they are pointed and cruel. Sometimes they are meant to be filled and no-one can bring themselves to fill them. This one is just peaceful. The serenity of the morning is only interrupted by the gentle clicking of her keystrokes and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. A mug set down just a little too heavily on the table. Comfortable, even though they’ve known each other for all of 18 hours.

Sam shuffles out of bed maybe 45 minutes after Dean does, his hair an absolute travesty. It looks like birds had once nested there but then vacated it for something more sleek and modern, abandoning their former home to the elements. At least, that’s what it looks like for the first three seconds, then Sam combs the fingers of one hand through it so nonchalantly it scarcely looks like he knows he’s doing it, and somehow it looks like not a single hair is out of place. Dean is baffled. Jess doesn’t even notice. This must be a regular occurrence.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she smiles, pouring him a mug of coffee before he can get to the brewer himself. “I was about to send in a search party.”

“It’s not even eight!” Sam grouses. “You got somewhere to be in a hurry?”

“Oh, you know, nothing big, just the end of your entire university career,” she replies sarcastically. “Thought you might want time to make yourself presentable before you walk across the stage.”

“The ceremony isn’t even until two,” he reminds her.

“Yeah but we’ll have to find parking on campus, and you know traffic is going to be a snarl, plus Dean might want to actually see something other than the inside of this house while he’s here.”

“We’re going to brunch, aren’t we?” Sam retorts, no heat in his voice. Dean can barely contain his snickering. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Dean assures him. “You two just sound like an old married couple already. Are you sure we’re not too late for the early bird special?”

Sam glowers, a little bit of color rising to his cheeks, but Jess is all smiles. “Come on, lets get a move on. I’m starving, and we’ve got three people to take turns at one shower before the ceremony later. We’re not late yet, but if we take too long we will be.”

~*~

Brunch is a diner that would fit right into any town in America. Sam says their coffee is the best, but it tastes like every cup of diner coffee he’s ever had, which is to say acceptable but nothing fancy. They serve the standard fare, eggs and bacon and hash browns and toast, pancakes and sausage and waffles, and they do it with the no-fuss efficiency of a place that has seen eras come and go. Dean slides into one side of the vinyl-seated booth while Sam and Jess sit opposite, and the laminated menus make that distinctive wobbling sound he can never quite describe but would be able to identify anywhere.

“Is there anything else you want to do while you’re in town, Dean?” Jess asks after they place their orders. “I know you don’t have much time before you fly back but we can see about making it happen.”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t exactly plan,” he says. Dwindling budget aside, he didn’t plan this trip at all so much as get swept into it and it’s only by the grace of little brother that he’s here at all. Sightseeing wasn’t really on the agenda. “Maybe next time I’m in town there will be more time.” Like he’s certain there will be a next time. Like he wants to fly again.

“I know a couple of places you’d probably really enjoy,” Sam tells him. “There’s this diner near campus, the food is just kinda alright but the pie is worth it.”

Dean smiles.

Maybe Sam knows him better than he thinks.

The portions are large and the talk is small, but the coffee is plentiful so Dean does alright. It doesn’t quite feel like having a meal with strangers, but it’s a near thing. Jess pretty much is one, considering he didn’t even know she existed a couple months ago and only met her last night. Sam is familiar but not. There’s so much in his mannerisms that mirrors the little kid Dean watched grow into his gangly limbs but there’s more, new stuff. Different stuff. It’s like learning to walk again, talking to Sam. He knows how it’s supposed to go, but every time he tries to jump right in he stumbles and has to grab the rails to steady himself.

Once or twice during the meal talk starts to drift away from the safe conversations at the shallow end of the pool and towards the deep stuff. Dean doesn’t even remember what the line was, something innocuous, and the second the question was out of Jess’ mouth he saw a look on Sam’s face that he’s sure mirrored the one on his own. Something about dad. Something about family. Something about before. Sam steers it back to safety, thankfully, because Dean doesn’t have his bearings well enough to talk about what it was like without getting into the meat of things, but he also doesn’t know how to dodge something like that without being a complete dick. That route has always worked before because he’s never given half a fuck what people think of him and has had no intention of sticking around any place but he supposes Jess is family now or near enough, and he doesn’t think Sam would take kindly to him jumping down her throat for an accidental misstep. Still, he can’t quite read her face well enough to tell if she picked up on the subtle shift. For all he knows, maybe she’s just waiting for a good time to come back to it, completely oblivious to the storm she’s skirting.

Dean is so, so tired.

He orders a refill of coffee, even though he’s already had three.

~*~

Dean doesn’t own a suit. That’s not a surprise considering he’s been living out of a duffle bag for most of his adult life, but he still feels entirely self-conscious dressing for the graduation in what he has at his disposal. His nicest jeans aren’t even really that nice, all things considered, and his choice for shoes is the boots on his feet or nothing, but at least he’s got a plain button up shirt he can wear, something a bit sharper looking than the flannel he tends to swath himself in. Sam will probably notice, although Dean’s not sure whether he’ll comment. But he will be aware of the fact that his brother didn’t even bother to outfit himself appropriately for his graduation.

Sam’s got a suit. It’s actually pretty well cut, not that Dean knows about these things, but Sam looks right wearing it. He’s a commanding presence, charm and poise, and it’s hard not to be a little impressed. In Dean’s mind a lot of the time he’s still a kid, but Sam’s grown up, and he’s done alright for himself.

In the car on the way to the graduation, Dean keeps quiet for the most part. Sam and Jess have this easy banter, a running conversation that flows smoothly, and while they make efforts to include Dean, he doesn’t bring much to the table so there’s not a whole lot for him to add. But he observes. He watches how they interact, how they play off each other. They’re well matched. Jess is Sam’s equal in all things Dean can identify, except for a few places where he’s pretty sure she outstrips him. She’s witty and quick on her feet, but more importantly she challenges him. She never lets him get too comfortable, too complacent, and it’s weird for Dean to admit but he thinks Sam needs this in a partner. He needs someone who pushes him. She’s perfect for him.

It makes Dean wonder if that’s what their parents were like. From what he’s been told about Mary, she’s exactly the kind of person that would challenge her partner like that, keep him on his toes, help bring out the best in him. That’s what he was told, anyway. He doesn’t know for sure. Dean barely remembers their mom, and he certainly doesn’t trust what he does remember as an accurate depiction of their relationship. He was so young when she died that it’s unrealistic to think he knew her at all. He remembers she was blonde, and that’s supported by photographs. He knows she was a beta but only because it’s mentioned in the paperwork in his baby book. Sam doesn’t have one of those, not really. She started one, but she only had six months to work on it and being that she had a four-year-old and an infant in tow at the time, Dean imagines she hardly had a moment to think about it.

Still, there’s a few pictures, a lock of hair, the hospital bracelets, that sort of thing. She tried. He wonders how much she had to try with John. He wonders how much help dad was when there was someone to ask for it. He’ll never know of course, because everyone who could have answered that question is dead now, but it’s an interesting train of thought.

As Jess predicted, the university is an absolute zoo. Finding parking takes eons and even then, it’s a trek from the lot to the auditorium. At least it’s a nice day, bright and sunny but not too hot, with a bit of a breeze to cool it off a bit. Everywhere they turn there are students out and about even though Dean would have assumed classes would be done by now, but it gives the entire place a lively air. When they finally reach their destination, Sam splits off to join his classmates while Dean and Jess take their seats.

“You must be so proud,” Jess says when they’re seated. She smiles softly at him, a gentle thing, and it’s not until she says it that Dean realizes how right she is. He practically raised Sam. Taught him to read. Helped him with homework. To a great extent, he’s responsible for shaping Sam’s sense of right and wrong. He shielded him from the trials that he could and helped him understand those he couldn’t, and when things were really bad, Dean was the only reason Sam had food to eat. They’ve had hardships. They’ve had battles. But Sam got the chance to realize his potential because Dean made sure he was looked after and knowing they’re about to watch him receive tangible proof of all that effort really drives it home. He _is_ proud. Damn proud. How could he not be?

Dean has only a vague memory from Sam’s high school graduation of how boring the occasion truly is. If Dean had ever graduated from high school like he was intended to, he’d know whether it was equally tedious from the other side of the process, too. He’d know if Sam was bored sitting up there, waiting for his name to be called. Unfortunately for Dean, he did not graduate. He obtained a GED several years after dropping out, and that is not a process that stands on ceremony. There was no pomp and circumstance, no fanfare, no celebration. Just a manila envelope with a bland-as-can-be certificate, sent in the mail. He might have picked up a slightly nicer bottle of whiskey that night to mark the occasion, but it’s just as likely that he did not. Therefore, he can only hope that Sam is more entertained by the proceedings than he is, because Dean could fall asleep right here in his seat and not feel like he missed much. There’s only a brief moment where it holds any interest at all, and that’s when Sam’s name is called. He marches across the stage, head held high, and accepts his diploma with a broad grin on his face. Dean can see it from the audience.

None of the rest of it matters. There are more names called afterwards, more graduates, more presentations. There are speeches. Dean claps when everyone else does, responds when Jess comments, and tries to look engaged, but he has already satisfied his entire reason for getting on a plane. His brilliant kid brother is a lawyer now, or at least qualified as one if he doesn’t have the job to back it up quite yet, and Dean got to bear witness to the moment he passed from student to graduate. He understands a little better now why it mattered so much to Sam. It’s more than a moment. It’s an occasion. It’s an event. And for all the abject terror of getting on a plane, the discomfort of meeting again after all these years, all of it, he’s glad he is here.

Dean stands back, afterward, when Sam finds them in the crowd and Jess practically flings herself into his arms. He’s a little jealous. Not of the graduation part, of course. Dean never even considered going to college, and he had no dreams about what he might accomplish there in any case. But Sam has someone that loves him, someone he is building a life around, and as much as Dean has survived on solitude for so many years it seems like things would be easier if he had a partner. Sometimes.

Having a roommate takes care of some of the details. He and Charlie share the housework. They cook for each other when there are heats to deal with, or when one of them is just too tired, or sometimes just because. They have routines. Habits. There is an aspect of shared life. But as much as Charlie has wormed her way into his heart and his life, a roommate lacks the intimacy that Sam and Jess share. Sam tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she grins at him. Dean does not remember the last time someone even tried to touch him that gently. He does not recall the last time he would have let them.

Jess has made dinner reservations for the evening at one of Sam’s favorite restaurants, so Dean’s ‘nice’ clothes get some more use. Dean is no more comfortable there than he was at the graduation, surrounded by so many people he doesn’t know in a place that is unfamiliar, but the food is good.  Expensive, but good. He cringes when he looks at the prices on the menu. It’s not really like he’s had to pay his own way much at all on this trip so one pricy meal won’t break the bank. At this point in time though, the need to be frugal is so deeply ingrained in him that even if Dean won the lottery tomorrow, he’d still probably have a hard time letting himself go.

He's supposed to be on vacation though, technically. He’s supposed to try to lighten up a little. Probably. That’s what Charlie would tell him. She’d say he should have a good time. Treat himself a little. It’s a testament to what a big impression she’s had on him in such a short period of time that his brain even goes there.

Dean orders a steak. Not the rib-eye, not the steak Oscar with the seafood topping, just a steak, but he decides to believe for just a moment that he deserves this nice little indulgence, even if he’s going to spend the rest of the trip worrying about it.

Jess pays the entire check while he’s in the bathroom, so in the end, it doesn’t even matter.

Dean is ready to call the day a success when they get home after dinner. Sam is puffed up and proud and laughing like he has no cares in the world, Dean’s had a couple of beers, not enough to get him drunk but enough to make him a little less stressed about things. It’s better than pretty much all the scenarios his asshole brain volunteered when he was worrying about how this could go wrong.

And then all of a sudden it isn’t.

“Hey, you know,” Sam says, pulling three beers out of the fridge and passing them out, “a couple of guys from my class are having a party this evening. We’re home from dinner early enough, we should go.”

Ah yes. A house party. That’s a twist Dean didn’t anticipate, but of course that’s how this would go. One of the bad scenarios his brain _didn’t_ plan for, so now he’s unprepared to talk his way out of it.

“Yeah, I mean, you should totally go,” Dean tells his brother carefully. “I bet it’ll be a blast. I’m still a bit jetlagged though, so I don’t know how much fun I’m gonna be at a party.”

“Ah come on, Dean. It’ll be great. It’s not even that far from here. We wouldn’t need to take a cab. We could walk!” Sam stops short of using the puppy-dog face, but Dean knows it is waiting in the wings. Jess is silent, either sensing the tension in Dean’s voice better than Sam does, or just not sure where to jump in, Dean isn’t certain.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Sam.” He hates hearing himself talk like this.

“What are you so afraid of?” Sam asks, a hard edge to his voice that shouldn’t really remind Dean of their father, but does anyway. “It’s just a house party. A couple drinks, a few friends. It’s a celebration, not a funeral.”

“How many of your friends are alphas?” Dean replies, his voice softer than he gives it permission to be. Small. Fearful. “And how many of their friends?”

Sam gives him a questioning look. “I don’t know. I don’t really keep track. They’re just guys I went to school with.”

“Yeah, see, I don’t have that luxury,” Dean says, weary. “I don’t get to throw myself into a house full of drunk strangers and not care which of them might catch a whiff of me and decide to do something about it. It’s not a good idea.”

His brother scoffs. It’s unkind. “Add about three more drinks to that paranoia and I might mistake you for dad.”

“That’s funny, Sam. Real funny. ‘Cause I was just thinking that dad’s the only other person I ever met who understood as little as you do about what a fucking crap hand I got dealt. “

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sam sighs. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“Yeah, it’s probably not, but it might, and I don’t get to pretend it’s not a possibility. This is what life is like for me, okay? I have to think about these things. I have to worry about whether I have an escape route. I have to know if I’m safe to let my guard down around the people I’m drinking with. I have to know if anyone I’m gonna let my guard down around is an alpha. Omegas who make the mistake of getting careless with that? Doesn’t usually end well for them. My life ain’t easy Sam. Never has been. But you wouldn’t know that, ‘cause you fucked off the second you could get out from under dad’s roof and left me to clean up the mess.” Dean is fuming now. Viciously angry. Ready to spit. Mad enough to make veiled reference to that thing he never speaks of. He will probably regret it later, but he’s too busy regretting this entire conversation, this entire trip, to worry about that right now.

“I don’t understand why you have to be so dramatic about this!” Sam shouts, making Dean cringe. He’s not alpha, but he’s not omega either, and that’s enough of a difference to make the instincts in Dean’s brain cower when it’s all adrenaline and cortisol.

“Fuck you,” Dean spits. “I’m being smart. I’m protecting my ass, because as usual, I’m the only one looking out for me. I won’t keep you from your party, but I’m not going.”

“Fine, you know what? Stay here. I don’t know why you even bothered getting on a plane if all you wanna do is stay locked up inside the damn house while you’re here. I could have not spent time with you while we’re in separate states just as easily.”

“Sam,” Jess interjects softly.

“It’s fine, Jess, he’s right,” Dean answers before his brother can get another word in. “I should have stayed home. Enjoy your party.” He sets his beer down on the table and heads to the guest bedroom with their hushed conversation following him up the stairs.

This entire trip was a mistake, and Dean was stupid for thinking things would be any different this time around. There’s a reason they haven’t seen each other since the funeral. There’s a reason Dean only puts so much effort into keeping up contact on the phone when they’re apart. Sam will never quite understand how different Dean’s life is, and there is no point in deluding himself into thinking otherwise.

He doesn’t dream of the church, at least, but it’s only because he barely sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...some of you are probably incredibly angry at Sam right now. I hate making you angry at Sam. Hell, some of you are probably angry at me for making Sam say these things.  
> I adore Sam, in canon and fanon, and I didn't like making him say these things either. That's part of why it was so hard to write this chapter. I tend to be working a few chapters ahead of where I'm posting, and i ended up burning through almost my entire buffer trying to get this one out. So I assure you, I didn't send Sam there lightly.
> 
> I'm not making Sam an antagonist here, I promise. This is part of something bigger, and if you know my work you know I don't write angst if I don't plan on giving it a happy resolution later, but it's gotta hurt first.


	16. Let it Linger

Dean has heard it said that you should never go to bed angry. Something about letting it fester and making it worse, he thinks, though he rarely finds himself in situations where anyone gets past enough of his defenses that it’s even an issue. He’s also heard it said that you should sleep on it, the polar opposite of the not going to bed angry thing. Something about a good night’s rest giving a person perspective. He supposes either approach might make sense depending on any number of mitigating factors, none of which apply here because Dean is absolutely not wrong and there’s nothing to get perspective on. He has no intention of capitulating.

Sam and Jess left for the party not too long after he made his exit last night, though there was definitely some continued discussion of the subject before they did. He couldn’t hear words, just the back and forth of voices, but it was a relief when the sound faded and the front door closed behind them. It wasn’t restful, just quieter, and alone with his thoughts is kinda Dean’s standard operating procedure these days so it’s nothing if not familiar. He didn’t even try to sleep for quite some time after they left and was still wide awake by the time they got home, but thankfully with the lights off in his room any thoughts Sam might have had of picking up where they left off were thoroughly dissuaded.

It’s the fear of that continuation that keeps Dean in the guest room now, though the clock on the nightstand says it’s past ten and Dean’s craving coffee and sustenance. It’s going to be unpleasant however he approaches it. Dean’s smart enough not to expect an apology this morning, or even an acknowledgement. Right now, it seems like the most he can hope for is a lack of open hostility. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Sam will be so hung over from his stupid frat party that he’s still in bed and Dean can sneak down for sustenance without a confrontation. Maybe he’ll be more prepared for it after coffee and calories. Maybe he’ll just fare better if he sees it coming.

He’s not really hoping for much because his luck never actually fares that well, but that would be ideal. “ _Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs,”_ he mutters mockingly. “This was the worst idea.”

While he’s trying to decide on a plan of attack and getting bogged down in anxious inaction, his phone chirps out a text alert. Dean’s heart drops to his stomach, terrified that it’s Sam breaching the sanctity of this room and coming at him digitally, but the panic is only temporary. It’s Charlie, reaching out from across the country to see how he’s faring on the trip. He texts back vaguely, avoiding the fine details and also most of the broad strokes. Charlie is not looking for a text conversation. Almost as soon as he sends of the reply his phone rings.

“You’re a shitty liar,” she informs in in lieu of a greeting. That’s where they’re at now. No formalities. Right down to the nitty-gritty.

“Which part was the lie?” Dean’s confusion is genuine. He didn’t actually say anything untrue, he just also didn’t say anything informative.

“I asked how it was going. You told me it’s fine and you’re tired and you can’t wait to come home. Fine is only in your vocabulary ironically, you’re always tired and we both know it, and I have never once heard you refer to this city as home. Talk to me.”

“I’m hanging up now,” Dean replies blandly, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. She barely knows him and she knows him better than Sam. Somehow, that makes it all worse. Much worse, actually. Because now that he’s talking to Charlie, he’s thinking about Charlie. Charlie, who is so full of life and joy, but with that look in her eye that Dean knows how to recognize at a moment’s notice because he’s seen it in the mirror almost every day of his life. This tiny girl with such a big heart, she has seen things, things Dean will never, ever ask about, but he knows without asking that she’s just as haunted as he is. And it was bad enough that Sam dismissed him for his own suffering, because Sam couldn’t possibly know what Dean has personally been through, but there is no way he can be so blind as to believe these things don’t happen to _some_ omegas. Omegas who have done nothing to deserve it. Omegas who get treated like chattel, like property. Omegas who don’t get half the rights of the more conventional designations because some fluke of nature made cells grow a different way and now they got this thing that isn’t exactly wrong with them but it’s not exactly right either. If Sam is gonna toss Dean’s fears out the window, that’s one thing, and it’s garbage and he’ll fume about it for a long ass time, but this isn’t just Dean. This is every omega, some of whom have probably had it a whole lot worse than even Dean has. And this is Charlie, one of the few people who would even notice if Dean never came back from California. That Sam could dismiss whatever it is that put that fear into her eyes is more than Dean can handle, and suddenly he’s madder than he was when Sam was right in his face.

“Dean I swear to the old gods and the new if you hang up on me I will change the Wi-Fi password on you so fast your head will spin. Don’t test me.” But it doesn’t matter. He’s already decided.

Dean picks his words carefully. He would rather not let his voice carry enough to draw Sam in here right now. Let him go on pretending a bit longer before he has to face his brother. “Sam tried to drag me to a party and pretty much shit all over my desire not to go if I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t full of drunk alphas.” Even saying it out loud makes him fume, like if he wasn’t already livid on Charlie’s hypothetical behalf he would be right back up there. “I told him omegas don’t really…we don’t get to be casual about stuff like that and he basically called me a drama queen. I’ve been holed up in the guest room since last night and honestly I think I might stay here until my flight tomorrow.”

“He _what?_ ” Charlie shrieks, her voice piercing in his ears even over digital lines. “That son of a bitch…I swear to…okay but never mind that. How are _you?”_

“Oh me? I’m just peachy. Hiding out in a ten by twelve room trying to figure out if I can make it to the bathroom without running into someone who thinks I’m a little bitch for worrying about things that happen to people like me all the fucking time. He compared me to our dad, Charlie. He called me paranoid! I never should have come here.”

Charlie’s voice goes soft. “Oh Dean,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry sweetie. We gotta get you out of there. Can you change your flight?”

“I mean, probably, but I can’t afford the stupid fees they’ll charge to change it this late in the game so it doesn’t matter.”

“Fuck that. You think I’m letting you languish there if I can get you out? Send me your login info for the airline and I’ll make it happen.”

“Charlie no,” Dean protests, but she cuts him off.

“What in the actual hell do you think I keep a rainy day fund for if not shit like this? How long will it take you to pack your shit up and get a cab to the airport? I wanna get you on the earliest plane you can actually get to.” She is beyond asking, and honestly, Dean wants out, so he stops fighting. This entire trip was a mistake. Ending it early is about the smartest thing he could do right now.

“It’s only like a twenty-minute drive, maybe thirty with bad traffic, so that plus however long it takes a cab to get here.” A cab, at least, Dean can afford.

“Okay well, gimme a little bit to see what I can sort out for you. Send me your info so I can get in and change your flight, and I’ll text you back when I’ve got something. You just worry about making sure you’re ready to go if I find something pretty soon.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” is all Dean can manage. Once again, this tiny redhead is saving his ass. He wonders how far the scales are gonna tip before he gets a chance to balance it back out. Not that he wants Charlie to need saving or anything, but he’d love to feel like he’s as useful to her as she is to him.

“Of course,” she replies softly. It might be the saddest thing he’s ever heard.

~*~

It takes Dean all of five minutes to pack. Not like he brought much with him. He was only never going to be here for a few days anyway. His toothbrush is still in the bathroom but he figures he’ll have to grab it on the way to the door, since emerging from his cave at this point may invite a conversation he is none too prepared for. At least if he runs into Sam on the way down, he can excuse himself to meet the waiting taxi and rude or not, it’s an out.

And then, while he waits to hear from Charlie, he paces.

Dean’s good at pacing. It’s a nervous thing, an expense of energy. On some level he feels like his brain gets just a bit less messy when he’s moving, and it’s probably placebo effect but who cares. It works for him, so he paces, and even though he’s checked the ringer several times to make sure he’ll hear it when she calls, he keeps checking to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. Thankfully, Charlie is a marvel, so he doesn’t have to wait long. Maybe half an hour after they ended their first call she’s dialling back in.

“Your chariot awaits, good sir. Your flight is in three hours. If you don’t mind bumming around the airport for a spell, you could call a cab now and make your escape.”

“Charlie, you’re a godsend.” He’s not even exaggerating. She’s like a guardian angel. “Thank you.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay kid? I need you back in one piece.”

And then there’s no more waiting, no more hesitating. He’s called a cab, his bag is packed, all that’s left to do is grab his toothbrush and once more into the breech. Dean shoulders his duffle and pulls open the door only to find Jess with her hand raised to knock.

“Uh, hi,” Dean offers sheepishly. He hadn’t prepared for running into Jess solo. He makes brief eye contact, less than is probably polite but more than he wants to. She lets it go without comment.

“I was just coming to see if you wanted something to eat. All that pacing you’re doing I figure you probably worked up a bit of an appetite.”

Dean grimaces. Should have figured the pacing would be somewhat audible. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Jess says, but there’s no rebuke in her voice, just kindness. “Sam had to go to the library.”

“Oh,” Dean replies. He’s pretty sure that’s not true. He’s pretty sure Sam didn’t want to face him, or Jess sent him out so she could get Dean out of his room, or something like that. It makes him feel guilty.

She gestures to his bag. “Going somewhere?”

“Changed my flight.” There’s a list of lies on deck ready to excuse his unexpected absence. They needed him at work. He’s homesick. His roommate needs him. Something. But they all feel hollow even before the words form and die on his lips, and he gets the feeling Jess would know them for exactly what they are. He gives her a tight smile. “My taxi should be here soon.”

“Cancel it,” she commands, soft but forceful.

“I can’t Jess, I gotta go.”

“Not the flight, dummy. The cab. I’ll drive you.” She turns to head down the stairs, grabbing a sweatshirt off the banister as she goes.

Dean sighs. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I’m going to.” She brooks no nonsense. Dean doesn’t have the energy to deliver any.

If Dean were expecting Jess to offer him a ride to the airport, he also would have expected it to be full of awkward silences. He wasn’t expecting it, obviously. But if he had been, that’s what he’d be anticipating. Talk radio background noise and traffic sounds and little to no conversation except the important details like which airline’s terminal he needs to get to. Jess plays like they’re old friends though. Like there isn’t an elephant in the room at all. Like This is normal.

“What time is your flight? Do we have time to hit a drive-thru? I desperately need more coffee.”

“Flight’s at three, so yeah, we got time.” That’s the moment Dean’s stomach decides to announce its displeasure with an audible gurgle. “I should probably grab something to eat anyway. I doubt they’ll offer anything edible on the plane.”

“Sounds about right.”

As soon as there’s coffee in the cupholders and a bacon & egg Mcmuffin in Dean’s hands, Jess hits the highway with a vengeance. She is not a defensive driver by any means. Not unsafe, just…aggressive. Dean supposes you have to be to make lane changes in this kind of traffic. While she drives, they make reasonably comfortable conversation on any number of topics, except it remains forefront in Dean’s mind that none of the topics is Sam. She doesn’t pointedly avoid talking about him but neither does she introduce it, and considering Sam is their only known common thread, he imagines that takes some doing. He appreciates it though. It’s easier without dodging the hard questions right now.

By the time they get to the airport Dean’s coffee is gone and there’s nothing but grease on his fingers to remember the breakfast sandwich by. Jess pulls up to the curb and gets the trunk, heaving Dean’s duffle bag out onto the sidewalk. Before Dean can decide if this calls for a hug or not, she’s springing one on him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her head pressed against his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize for him,” Dean replies fiercely. “You’re not responsible for him. Sam can clean up his own messes.”

“Can he though?” Jess replies with a rueful laugh. “I know I don’t have to. I’m still sorry. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I always do,” Dean tells her sadly. The airport swallows him up. He doesn’t see her drive away.


	17. Home

Home.

Dean isn’t used to the idea of having somewhere to call home yet, so the pull is unfamiliar and strange, but under different circumstances he thinks he might enjoy the feeling of ending a journey and heading back to where he belongs. Even today with everything looming heavy over him it feels less like running away than he’s used to. Dean doesn’t travel to go places, he travels to get away from them. This time he’s travelling to get back.

Now that he knows how well he fares on airplanes, the waiting period in the airport is worse. So much worse. The anxiety creeps into his mind almost from the moment Jess drops him off, sprouting tendrils and taking root so it can colonize him and replace all his thoughts with fears. All these people around him have no idea the danger they’re putting themselves in, apparently, because none of them seem as terrified as he feels. They take it as a matter of course, going about their business like they’re not about to strap themselves into a metal coffin only to be hurled through the sky by highly combustible jet fuel. Attempting to be rational, Dean suggests to himself that he should perhaps spend the time before his flight reading up on exactly how jet airplanes work. Perhaps understanding the science will make him less fearful.

Or possibly it could give him several new things to be afraid of.

He’s not going to take that chance.

Instead, he finds a restaurant that serves alcohol, one of those chain places with questionably clever menu item names and dead-eyed servers. He won’t get drunk, not in mid afternoon and not before getting on a plane with god only knows who, but a beer or two will kill the time and enough brain cells that he can perhaps draw a single deep breath before they call for boarding. A burger won’t hurt either, something big and greasy served with a mountain of French fries.

He texts Charlie while he’s waiting for his order. Yes, he’s at the airport. No, he didn’t talk to his brother before he left. Sure, he’s up for watching a movie when he gets home. It’s weird how something so little can make him feel so loved, but there it is, all pixelated on his phone’s screen. Somebody misses him when he’s not there. It makes him smile.

Across the restaurant, someone else smiles. There’s a girl, travelling alone from the looks of it, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, yoga pants and a sweatshirt and zero fucks given, but she notices him, and she smiles. Dean smiles back. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the human connection. Maybe she looks familiar. Too late, he worries that she’ll take the interaction as an invitation to join him, but the waitress brings her bill a few moments later and she becomes preoccupied with that, and by the time Dean thinks to notice her again she has left the restaurant. Maybe a small bit of socializing wouldn’t have been the worst thing ever, but he’s grateful not to have to put on a mask right now.

Of course, it does leave him alone with his thoughts, and lord almighty does he have a lot of them.

He knew Sam was sheltered. Hell, he saw to it. It was kind of his number one concern for quite a few years. That’s pretty much all Dean knew: dodge punches, make sure Sam didn’t know how bad things were. But he always figured that extended mostly to the details surrounding dad. Make sure his little brother never knew how violent dad was. How much he drank. The things he _said_ when he was drunk. Make sure Sam never knew that Dean was doing most of the grocery shopping from the time he was old enough to drive, that he managed whatever details of the household he could get his hands on. He cooked. He cleaned. He helped Sam with his homework. He did everything their father was supposed to, and protected Sam from the knowledge that he either wasn’t capable any longer, or wasn’t willing. He kept Sam safe from as many of the beatings as possible. He couldn’t save him from all of them, of course. Sam was defiant and too smart for his own good from a young age, and he saw the injustice in John’s dominance before he was old enough to really understand why it was so wrong, but his preservation instinct developed slower. He was smarter than John, but not faster.  Not stronger. Dean couldn’t save him from everything. There would be days when Dean and Sam both would take bruises, either because Dean wasn’t quick enough to put himself in the line of fire, or because John had too much rage to burn out on one child alone. But the days when it was in his power, Dean kept Sam from experiencing any of it.

Dean has no regrets about what he did to protect Sam from the violence. No child should have to experience that, and when he’s especially morose he makes time to mourn his own youth and the things he learned earlier than he should have had to, but at least he kept his brother from feeling the brunt of it. But he never imagined that shielding Sam from that mess would keep him in the dark about what life was like for Dean outside the home. He never imagined that his blessed beta brother would be so sheltered that he’d fail to learn how their society treated omegas.

That’s probably Dean’s fault too. He never thought about it. He was old enough when he presented that Sam was getting out of the house as much as he was able. In retrospect, even then at the age of 15 he was probably making plans to flee. Dreams maybe, rather than plans. But he was laying the groundwork. It makes sense. Thinking of what schools he could go to, how to get scholarships. Jobs he could get to pay his way. How to make it happen under John’s nose. Under Dean’s nose. How to get out unscathed. But the whole time that was happening, Dean went somewhere he couldn’t follow, somewhere so few people went that there would be no reason for Sam to understand it if nobody ever showed him. Dean was the only one who could have given him that window, given the circumstances, and he was so focused on sheltering Sam from the things he didn’t have to see that he didn’t bother to show him the things he _should_ , and nobody else was doing the teaching.

How do you even tell your kid brother about that shit though? How does that conversation even start?

The waitress brings Dean his beer, a disinterested smile on her face. He smiles back; fake, plastic. It’s better than hiding in the spare bedroom at Sam and Jess’ house, but not by much.

~*~

Dean stops himself after three. He can handle three beers with a meal, and he really can’t justify spending any more than that on overpriced airport Sam Adams. But there’s food in him, and he’s drowned his sorrows a bit, so when the boarding call for his flight comes he’s doing okay. Charlie’s borrowed backpack gets slung over one shoulder and the heavy thuds of his boots are muffled by the cacophony of the airport, the bustle of people and voices and mechanical noises. The flight attendant at the gate scans his boarding pass, glances at his ID. He doesn’t know if her eyes linger on the _Omega Male_ designation between his name and his birthdate, or if she’s just a slow reader, or if it’s a reason to pause during an entirely bland and boring part of the job, but it feels like his check in takes longer than those before him. Perhaps it’s just the nerves. Perhaps it’s just the fear of flying playing tricks with his brain, spiking his anxiety, making him think something new and horrible will go wrong. It’s all for naught. He goes through just like everyone else. He lines up in the jetway with all the other passengers, and he waits, and he finds his seat. Stows his bag under the seat in front of him, buckles himself in.

Dean goes home.

~*~

He’s one of the last passengers off the plane and through the gates, so the crowd is thin and sparse by the time he makes his way out. It takes him but a moment to spot Charlie, her bright red hair clearly visible at the back of the crowd. He makes for her like he’s nonchalant and unbothered, but really he’s quite frantic. He can’t wait to sleep in his own bed, to get back to the reality that he’s crafted for himself, to forget this trip ever happened and instead focus on the life in front of him, however imperfect it may be.

Just before he reaches Charlie, he notices what she’s holding. Dean’s not certain how he spotted her before he saw it, what with the bright colors, but he sees it now. The grin on her face is broad and shameless as she hands him a bundle of balloons, myriad colors catching the afternoon sunlight. In the center, its ribbon a little longer than the rest and placing it just a bit higher is a single mylar balloon emblazoned with the words “welcome home”, and, ironically, pictures of more balloons. He’s not sure who designed it that way, but the sentiment tugs at the remaining strings attached to his heart in a way Dean wasn’t sure was possible at this late stage of cynicism. He’s not about to cry in an airport, not without legitimate crisis or trauma, but it’s a near thing. He almost gets there.

“Hey kid,” she says softly, opening her arms for a hug.

“Hi,” Dean says back.

She’s got questions. They don’t matter. They’ll deal with it later. Dean is back where he belongs.

He is home.

It’s just small talk until they collect Dean’s duffle bag and stuff everything into her car. Dean sets his backpack on the balloons ribbons in the rear footwell to keep them out of Charlie’s sightlines while she drives. He’s got no idea how she managed to get them here. Maybe she just never looks through the rear window. Except she does, because she catches Dean’s eye as she turns to look over her shoulder, spotting her path as she backs out of the parking lot, and there are unasked questions in her eyes.

They stop for groceries, a few basics. Almost out of coffee. No eggs. Various and sundry staples. Dean pretends not to notice when she slips bacon into the cart, and chocolate chips. Later, when they’re home, she’ll suggest breakfast for dinner because that’s how Charlie does comfort, and he will act surprised, and she will be most pleased.

This is how you friendship.

~*~

Sure enough, as soon as Dean has unpacked his things and plugged in his phone and changed into clothes he hasn’t been wearing since the West Coast, she’s pulling things out of the cupboards and heating up a pan.

“Pancakes and bacon?” she asks.

“I’ll make the pancakes,” Dean offers, because she was going to ask anyway.

The first few golden brown cakes are lingering in the oven to keep warm as Charlie crisps up the last of the bacon. He feels better than he has since the fight last night, more comfortable, more supported, more at home. And why shouldn’t he? Dean fits here. Charlie makes sure of it. She opened up her life and made room for him. Hell, she invited him in. She’s not blood, she’s not family, she doesn’t owe him, but she went out of her way to pick Dean up when he was in a bad place and she has asked literally nothing in return. Of course he’s going to feel better here.

But it’s not just this apartment, with its triple locked door and the roommate who loves him and the pancake dinners. With the notable exception of the far too friendly alpha at his previous residence, it’s like everyone here is looking out for Dean’s best interests. Benny, for example. At first, Dean thought Benny was just taking pity on him, offering him a job because Dean was a sad and sorry case and he had the means to help. At best, he figured Benny was a good Samaritan. But it’s not just that. Yeah, Dean earns his keep. He’s a hard worker, learns as fast as he can make himself, takes initiative, isn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. But Benny doesn’t just value him as an employee. He actually gives a shit. He honestly seems more concerned with Dean’s wellbeing than his contributions to the bakery, and that’s taken some getting used to. Still feels a little odd, to be frank, but it doesn’t suck. It’s just unfamiliar. Dean flips another pancake and vows next time Benny invites him over for dinner, he’s going to say yes.

And then there’s Castiel. That’s a funny one. Dean’s still more than a little uncertain there. But god help him, that strange and uncanny alpha seems to actually give a shit what happens to Dean, and he’s never once done anything that makes Dean feel even a little uncomfortable. Sure, at first his very existence as an alpha in the same room as Dean was a source of discomfort, but that had nothing to do with Castiel’s actions, just his designation. It’s a puzzle, and he hasn’t figured it out yet, but the important thing is that there are people here who actively give a fuck. That sign at the church was right. He does have friends here. Good ones, and more than he anticipated. More than he asked for. He may not have family in the traditional sense, but somehow he managed to cobble together a found one, a chosen family that could have picked anyone and gladly settled on Dean. And he doesn’t really get it, but he’ll take it.

“What are you smiling about?” Charlie teases, maybe hoping to get him talking. He knows she wants to ask more about how things all went down with Sam, but he doesn’t feel the need to get into it right now. They can hash that out over the coming days and weeks. Hell, months. He doubts he’s going to be seeing his brother any time soon, so there’s no rush to dissect it.

“Nothing,” he assures her. “Just glad to be home.”

 


	18. Coffee

After the first couple of days back in town, it becomes abundantly clear to Dean that Sam has yet to realize the error of his ways, and an apology is not forthcoming. It’s not really a surprise at this point considering how long things dragged out before he even returned Dean’s calls to invite him out to the coast, but he had hoped. Well, those hopes are now dwindling, and with each passing day it becomes more and more obvious that he will receive no vindication here.

Dean tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter. He has people here, people who care about him overtly and aggressively, even when he doesn’t want to let them. That should more than make up for it. But Sam is family. He is blood. He has known Dean longer than any other human being who still walks this earth, and it is painful in a way he cannot qualify to think that Sam will not be someone he can count on his team. But if there’s an olive branch to be extended, it won’t be Dean’s hand reaching out to offer it. He is the one wronged, and he will not make the first move towards fixing things.

For the most part, he tries to throw himself into his work. There is a fantastic level of escapism in the method and detail of his day, especially the early morning parts, and by the time he’s out front on the cash register he can usually find some calm. It all comes crashing back when he gets home (he can say that now, home) but at the bakery, he is at peace. Benny seems to notice, and so sometimes Dean finds himself in the back of house all day, tasking instead of interacting, like it’s therapy instead of a job. Sometimes Benny himself works the front counter and has Dean inventory things. In any of his previous jobs, being relegated to the back where nobody had to see him and interact with him, Dean might take as a punishment. Might be some kind of statement that he is unfit for public appearance. Benny though, he offers it like a gift, like he knows exactly what Dean needs to find his peace of mind, and he orchestrates things to make that happen.

On one such day, when Dean is counting product so Benny can place his next supply order, he comes out front to check how many cake boxes they have on hand, and finds Benny chatting with that oily, unctuous Brit he would rather never see again. Dean still can’t exactly place what was so off-putting about the man. Sure, he came off as exceedingly arrogant, but so do half the people he runs into in this world, and most of them don’t make his skin crawl. In any case, the café is empty so he seems perfectly content to monopolize Benny’s time, and Dean can’t help but linger out of curiosity. He checks the stock he came out to investigate, notes the numbers, then busies himself with checking stock on other things he’s almost entirely sure they don’t need, just to be sure, so he can maybe catch a snippet of what the douche is up to.

The conversation is soft, too soft for Dean’s ears to hear in any detail, but there’s definitely a back and forth. And then Benny’s voice, usually so gentle, booms out in response.

“That’s a no,” he says firmly, and Dean gets the impression he’s repeating himself.

“Come now, Mr. Lafitte. Do be reasonable. You can hardly call it a good business decision to allow an alpha to manage your security needs when you have so many vulnerable omegas on your staff. It’s practically scandalous.” Dean’s not looking, but he can feel eyes on him when the man speaks, and his voice seems to carry like it was meant more for Dean’s ears than Benny’s.

Yep. Dean does not like this guy one bit.

“Appreciate your concern, Mister-“

“Crowley,” the Brit supplies helpfully.

“Mr Crowley,” Benny continues. “Really. But I’m more than happy with the services we got, and that last bit sounded a whole lot more like a threat than a consideration, so if you don’t remove yourself from my store right now, I’ll see to removing you myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Crowley concedes smoothly. Dean doesn’t turn around until he hears the bell on the door jingle to signal his exit.

“Got half a mind to rearrange that bastard’s face,” Benny mutters. “Sorry about that, Dean.”

Dean laughs. Apparently his presence wasn’t as subtle as he thought. “Don’t be sorry on my account. I’d buy tickets to that boxing match.”

“Got those inventory numbers?”

“Yep,” Dean replies, handing over his clipboard. For some reason, in this moment, he’s stricken with a very strong sense of gratitude towards his boss. It’s uncharacteristic, but today, Dean’s gonna share his feelings. Maybe it’s the fact that Crowley gave him such a bad vibe and Benny found him just as creepy. Maybe it’s just a buildup of all the ways Benny has sheltered his ass. He’ll analyze that later. “Hey, listen. I don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for. Well. Everything. But specifically making things work for me to get out for my brother’s graduation. The trip didn’t really go as planned, but it was a big deal that you let me swing the time off.”

Benny just smiles. “Family’s important. The ones you’re born to and the ones you choose. Ones that choose you, too.”

“Yeah, I’m learning that.”

“Good. That’s good. You mind taking over the register so I can go order this stuff?”

“You got it boss,” Dean replies. It’s not ‘sir’, but Benny raises an eyebrow at him anyway.

~*~

The weather is nice now. Dean doesn’t mind walking to work. He tells himself it’s cheaper than paying for gas for short commutes, that it’s not practical to drive when it only takes him fifteen or twenty minutes on foot. It wakes him up, he drinks coffee while he walks. Occasionally he remembers to grab headphones on the way out the door and gets to listen to music on his way in. But walking to work means walking home, too, and by then he’s usually dead tired, a zombie shambling along on busted feet, not quite enough neurons firing to get a proper stride on. A common hazard of early shifts, he’s sure, but he’s not in the habit of complaining about it at work and Charlie never works as early as he does because she isn’t a baker, so he doesn’t complain about it at home either.

Sometimes he gets another coffee on the way home. The little shop up the block from the bakery is pretty good and in spite of himself Dean has started to get moderately familiar with the staff there. The Mom and Pop owners, their daughter who works the counter when she isn’t in classes. The hipster dudes with the cool tattoos and the thick framed glasses. They’re not friends, but they’re friendly. It’s a level of familiarity he’d never have let himself cultivate before; one he’d never have been around long enough to attain even if he’d tried. He knows people here. He recognizes them and he lets them grow to recognize him, and even if he’s not in the habit of letting any of them in, it is undeniably progress.

Dean’s been back at work for about a week after the ill-advised trip to California and his sleep is suffering. He’s always tired like Charlie said, that’s true, but it feels like it’s got its claws in him a bit deeper right now. Sometimes he wonders if it’s a heat coming on. At this point, things are irregular enough that Dean wonders that any time he starts to feel not good in any identifiable way. Headache? Probably a heat. Stomach pain? Surely that’s a heat and not the fact that he ate far too many of Charlie’s grandmother’s potato knishes last night. Stubbed his toe? Heat. Sneezes? Heat. Doesn’t matter that none of these things are anything he’s used to feeling before a heat. Dean’s just at the point where he’s been betrayed by his biology so many times he’s stopped expecting anything else.

It’s also easier than stressing about his brother.

In any case, Dean’s caffeine consumption is inversely proportionate to his sleep patterns, so when the going gets tough, Dean gets coffee. Specifically, he gets himself an extra cup to enjoy on the walk home so he can walk instead of shuffle, and also so that he has something to wash down the sausage roll he snagged on the way out of the bakery.

Dean gets in line at the counter behind some customers so nondescript he actually can’t be bothered to describe them and shoves his hands in his pockets while he waits. Some saxophone-heavy jazz plays through the speakers, there’s a muted din of voices and bustle. The espresso machine hisses with steam, cups clatter against the counter, the cash register dings, the receipt printer whirs. Dean doesn’t absorb any of it, all mundane noises fading into the background, so it jolts him as if from a slumber when he hears his name.

“Dean?” the voice repeats. Dean turns to find himself face to face with Castiel.

“Oh hey,” Dean replies awkwardly, forcing a smile. It’s a little unsettling that an alpha managed to get that close to him without Dean’s nose alerting him to the fact, but at least it was Castiel. As far as alphas go, Dean supposes that’s pretty safe.

Huh.

That’s interesting.

“Did you just get off work?” Castiel asks, apparently unaware of Dean’s awkwardness just as he’s unaware of his own.

“Yeah, grabbing a cup of coffee before I walk home.”

Castiel smiles. “You’re living with Charlie now, right? I’m glad. Much more secure than your last place.”

“Definitely,” Dean replies with a nod. “Plus she’s a pretty great roommate.”

“That’s funny,” Castiel says with a twinkle in his eye. “She says the same thing about you.”

Dean orders his coffee, chats with Castiel a bit while they wait for their drinks. Castiel orders something with pumpkin flavor, something Dean does not think belongs in coffee, but he keeps that thought to himself. There are so many scents in a place like this, people and food, but now that he’s alert and aware of Castiel’s presence, Castiel is pretty much all he can smell. It’s hard to keep his nostrils from flaring as he drinks it in, remembering a little of the embarrassment from when he was sequestered in Castiel’s room for several days, but mostly just reveling in how soothing it is, how settled Castiel’s scent makes him feel.

“Do you want a ride home?” Castiel asks. “It’s not really out of my way. I’m going to meet a client in a bit that’s more towards that end of town anyway.”

Against Dean’s better judgement, he accepts.

“Thanks,” Dean offers, climbing into the passenger side of Castiel’s massive boat of a car. He’s got much more composure than last time he sat here. He doesn’t need to roll the windows down to keep his sanity now, and Castiel isn’t some potentially dangerous stranger. Last time felt like accepting a ride on the back of a tiger, convenient but unwise. Castiel seems a bit more like a housecat now. He grins at Dean and blushes just a little. Dean doesn’t know why. Maybe his own scent is stronger than he realizes. Castiel keeps his own counsel on the subject.

“It’s no trouble,” Castiel assures him. “I heard you went on vacation recently?”

Dean cringes. “Yeah I don’t really wanna talk about it. Didn’t go well.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says with a frown. He sounds sincere. Dean’s not sure he’s ever met an alpha who understands the meaning of the word before.

When Castiel pulls the car up in front of Dean and Charlie’s building he kills the engine but makes no move to get out of the car. Dean grabs his lunch bag and his coffee, tucks the bag under his arm so he can close the door and manage keys. Just as he’s about to swing the car door closed he pops his head back in.

“Hey, uh, maybe next time, let me buy you coffee?” He hopes his face doesn’t look as red as it feels.

“I’d like that,” Castiel replies. Not a housecat. A kitten. Practically adorable.

Dean has no idea what he’s doing, but as he walks back into the apartment his stomach is full of butterflies instead of lead weights, so it can’t be the worst idea he’s ever had.

Charlie’s on the couch when he opens all the locks on their door, kicks it closed, then relocks them all. Her hair is piled on top of her head in what he understands to be called a bun but might just as easily be a nest of some kind. She’s wearing a t-shirt that’s several sizes too big for her, sweat pants with a hole in one knee, and slippers shaped like little stuffed racoons.

“Halo?” he asks, already fully aware of the answer before he speaks.

“Yeah huh. You want in? I can switch to co-op.” Her eyes never leave the screen.

“Nah I’m good,” Dean replies.

“You’re home early.” There’s no question. Just an observation. And yet, defensiveness.

“I uh, got a ride.”

This, Charlie pauses the game for. “From whom? You have like, three friends, I’m right here, and we both know Benny doesn’t leave the shop until 5 even when he’s in for baking. So that leaves…” She trails off. It’s pointed.

“Yeah, so? I ran into Cas at the coffee shop. He offered me a ride home.”

“Oh he’s Cas now,” she teases.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You call him Cas all the time.”

“So I do,” Charlie agrees. “So I do. You sure you don’t want in on this?” The quick change in subjects makes Dean more than a little suspicious but it also saves him from talking about this any longer, so he rolls with it. If she decides she needs to do more needling, she’ll do it, and there isn’t much Dean can say to prevent that, so at least for now he’s off the hook.

“Not really up for first person shooters right now. Switch it up to Smash Bros and I’m in.”

“You’re on.” Charlie busies herself switching over the inputs and passes Dean a controller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept promising you more Cas and I finally delivered! Love you all!!
> 
> dangerousnotbroken dot tumblr dot com


	19. A Less Than Decent Proposal

Dean starts to wonder if he bit off more than he can chew, offering to buy Cas coffee. He doesn’t have any specific regrets at the moment, but as much as coffee is casual and he never actually indicated he meant anything more than consuming coffee at the same time in the same place, it is an invitation. An invitation to think of Dean as more than an acquaintance. An invitation to take up some of his time. And he doesn’t think Castiel is going to go anywhere unsavory with that train of thought. He has no reason to, and every reason not to. Honestly, he’s not sure how he’s managed to reconcile this in his brain but he actually kinda trusts the alpha. But the longer Dean thinks about it, the more he’s concerned about giving anyone the chance to get that close to him. He is probably overthinking it. He’s also probably overthinking the overthinking. But he just can’t shake the feeling that he’s in over his head.

Nonetheless, life goes on.

Dean has his first experience with choux pastry. Normally, Benny makes the eclairs himself, or one of the more senior bakers, but he’s decided Dean is ready for that. It doesn’t sound like flattery when he says it. It sounds sincere. Dean is still getting used to that. He doesn’t love learning brand new things at ass o’clock in the morning when he’s barely awake, but he also isn’t interested in disappointing Benny or turning down an opportunity to prove that he is valuable.

Like most of the French recipes he’s learned so far, choux is simple ingredients prepared in complex ways. These are the times when it really occurs to Dean that baking is a science as much as anything. It’s not just combining butter and flour that makes a roux, it’s the way it’s heated just so and stirred properly that gives the dough its consistency. You add the eggs after because it changes the chemical makeup. It is picky and particular, and altogether necessary. Dean is certain he will be following a recipe on this one for a while, but he gets it, and his piping skills are developed enough at this point that his eclairs look fairly similar to Benny’s.

Shortly after Dean goes on his lunch break, Benny takes off to do a bank deposit. The other bakers are still in the back cleaning up and frosting cupcakes and whatever else, but out front it’s just Dean. And for a while it’s calm and quiet, a trickle of customers that he can easily keep up with. He sells a bunch of donuts, some sausage rolls, a few loaves of bread. Someone buys a birthday cake. It is very mundane. The customers are all quite boring

But then he looks up after restocking the case, tidying up the crumbs and straightening out the rows of Florentines, and Crowley is standing at his register with such a smooth smile on his face it might as well be painted on. Dean doesn’t trust him, not one bit.

“Is Mr. Lafitte in?” he asks, his voice like silk.

“Nah,” Dean replies. This guy doesn’t get the polite customer service voice. Obviously he ain’t buying anything, and Dean doesn’t care if he comes off as rude. In fact, he’d rather prefer it. “I’ll be sure to tell him you dropped by though.” That’s true at least, but mostly it’s just going to be so he and Benny can gripe about the man’s very existence.

“Actually, I was looking to speak to you.”

Dean looks at him like he’s growing horns. “Why?” he asks bluntly.

“Well you see, I was thinking I could do you a favor.”

“I very much do not want you to do me any favors, buddy.”

Crowley shakes his head. “I think you might change your mind on that. You see, I know how hard it can be for an omega in this world. People don’t give you the respect you deserve, you’re looked down on if you don’t have a mate on your arm. They don’t really listen when you talk. And they certainly aren’t concerned for your safety.” Dean can see where this is going. He is not pleased. He also notes, with pointed irony, that Crowley did not listen to his declination of the offer to do him a favor and then proceeded to speak from a place of empathy about how nobody listens to omegas. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this bakery’s security needs are currently met by—,“ Crowley lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “an _alpha.”_

“What’s your point?” Dean replies, not actually interested in his point, but rather in advancing the conversation to the point where he’s asked a question and can reply in the negative.

“Well I just don’t think that’s such a good idea. I mean, can you imagine? An alpha having access to the alarm codes for this place, able to circumvent the system if he saw fit. I’m only concerned for your wellbeing, Mister—” he trails off, just like he did with Benny.

“Yeah I’m not giving you my name.”

“Suit yourself. I’m only thinking, if you were to have a conversation with Mr Lafitte and sway his mind on my proposal, I’m certain there could be some kind of compensation in it for you. Call it a sales commission.”

Dean crosses his arms, using every bit of his abnormal size to his advantage. He knows he can look imposing when he wants to. It’s just that usually when he wants to, his scent overrides any benefit his looks gain him. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering me a bribe,” Crowley opens his mouth to correct Dean, but he just runs over him like a freight train, “to convince my boss that I am a frightened little mouse and that he should switch his security contract over to you to protect my virtue, simply because, what, the company that does our alarm monitoring has an alpha employee? Gimme a break,  pal. I don’t want your money, and I definitely don’t trust you. I happen to know the alpha you’re so concerned about, and I’m pretty clear on which one of you I’d rather be stuck in an elevator with.”

Crowley sniffs. “Figures.”

“Excuse me?” Dean snaps.

“I should have known Castiel would have gotten to you already. You’re just his type. Pretty and dumb. Very well, suit yourself. You could have profited off of this, you know, but I don’t know why I expected an omega to have that kind of foresight.”

“Hey, asshole, we’re done here. How about you crawl back under whatever rock you came from, and follow that up with if I ever see your face in here again I’m calling the cops. Pretty sure that alpha you’re so concerned about installed a panic button for us under the counter on account of how dangerous it is for omegas in this world. I bet you don’t run your mouth so much when they slap a pair of cuffs on you.” Every word of the empty threat is worth it, just to see the look on Crowley’s face. “Bye now, have a terrible day!” Dean grins and waves flippantly as Crowley stalks out the door. It probably won’t be the last time they see him, but it was at least a satisfying exchange.

He tells Benny about it as soon as he gets back from the bank. His boss is normally calm and collected, but in that moment Benny looks about ready to break something.

“That slimy little…as if I’d ever do business with him!”

“Well it’s not like I was gonna take his money, so you got nothing to worry about there,” Dean assures him.

“Thought never crossed my mind, brother. You’re a better judge of character than that. I’m just sorry you had to listen to him spew that crap about omegas at you. Ain’t fair. He was trying to manipulate you.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dean agrees. “But he wasn’t very good at it.

Benny laughs, deep and hearty.

~*~

A couple days later, Dean’s at the counter again. After a reasonably busy day, he’s putting a pie in a box for an adorable omega-beta couple who can’t stop making eyes at each other. They tell him they’re going on an afternoon picnic in the park. Its saccharine sweet, but they look so happy Dean can’t even bring himself to be cynical. Just as he rings them up, Cas walks in looking more bewildered than usual. Dean finishes serving the couple and tells them he hopes they enjoy their picnic, then waits for Cas to approach the counter.

“Heya Cas. How’s it going?”

“Hello Dean,” Cas replies somewhat absentmindedly. “I need…pies.”

Dean cringes. “I literally just sold the last one. I could get you some tarts maybe?”

“Shit,” Cas exclaims. It sounds odd coming from this calm, collected alpha. Dean’s not sure he’s ever heard him swear before. “I’m supposed to bake pies for my niece’s bake sale tomorrow morning, and the heating element on my oven died. I went to preheat it and it just…sparked and kinda melted. I didn’t know ovens could do that! And nobody can get me a replacement until early next week.”

Dean’s heart goes out to the guy. He seems so bent out of shape over this, so he’s guessing it’s pretty important to him to be there for his niece. “Hang on a sec. I got an idea. Don’t go anywhere.” Before Castiel can answer, Dean books it to the back to look for Benny. He hates asking for favors. Loathes it. Avoids it at all costs. But he figures that since this one is technically a favor for somebody else, that might circumvent the guilt.

“What’s goin’ on?” Benny asks.

“Don’t suppose there’s any way you’d let me come back after close and bake some pies for Castiel?”

Benny eyes him sideways. “I don’t have a problem with it, but what’s the occasion?”

“His neice’s bake sale and his oven died. Came in to buy some here as a last resort only I just sold the last one…”

“Aw hell, that’s a bad run of luck. You figure you’ll bake em after close and he’ll come get ‘em in the morning?” Benny seems convinced that this is a good idea, so that’s a win.

“Well actually, I was thinking he could help me. That way he can still tell his niece he baked them and it’s not technically a lie.”

Benny laughs. “You’re a clever one. Okay, you got it. You got keys and codes, so you come in whenever works. Just make sure you’re not in too late to get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow. I hate seeing you walkin’ around like a zombie.” He goes back to his paperwork like it’s a done deal, so Dean calls out a thanks over his shoulder as he heads back out front. Just before he pushes open the door, Benny calls out to him again.

“And Dean? Don’t charge Cas for the pies. That boy’s done me enough favors over the years, I think we can extend him some gratitude. You know. Since the bake sale is for his niece’s school.”

Dean’s grinning broad when he comes back out front, but Cas looks so flustered he might as well be wringing his hands. “Got you covered,” Dean tells him.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks. There’s a little bit less stress in his voice now, but it’s not gone.

“Benny has agreed to let us use the ovens in back after the bakery closes. I assume you don’t mind getting your hands a bit dirty, since you were going to bake at home anyway?”

“Um, yeah. That sounds great. Dean thank you! You’ve saved my ass!”

“Well, I figured I owe you what with all the saving my ass you’ve done,” Dean says, brushing off the praise. It sits uncomfortably on his skin. Unfamiliar. He’s just doing something nice, is all. “Meet me back here at 5 and we’ll get started?”

“Thank you,” Cas says again as he backs towards the door. The relief is obvious on his features. Dean wonders if this is what it felt like for Cas when he offered Dean somewhere to crash during his heat. The occasions aren’t on the same level, of course, but the idea of helping someone simply because you have the means and they have the need, that rings true. Of course, Dean can’t ask about that without bringing up that terrible heat, so he’ll probably never find out.

~*~

Though he’s just going back to the bakery for more baking, Dean still walks home after work and takes a shower. It’s not like he’s going to hang out at the café down the block for four hours while he waits to meet Cas. He’d just drink too much coffee if he did that, and besides, it’s probably a good idea to have his car handy. Cas didn’t actually say how many pies he needed so he doesn’t really know how long they’ll be there. He doesn’t want to get stuck walking home in the dark if he can avoid it, and he doesn’t want to look like he assumes Cas will drive him home. Cas totally would, of course. But he doesn’t want to look like he expects it.

Charlie is out playing Dungeons and Dragons with some nerd friends, so she’s not home when Dean arrives, which is just as well because considering how much lip she gave him just for taking a ride home from Cas, she’s bound to have opinions about this pie baking escapade. He would much rather be discussing it in the past tense. Well actually, he’d much rather not be discussing it at all, but he’s been living with Charlie long enough now that he’s well aware he won’t get a chance to dodge it. He can’t avoid the battle, but he can pick the terrain on which it is fought.

Dean showers, just like any other day after work, because he’s sweaty and covered in flour and he probably smells awful. And then he dresses in jeans and a t-shirt just like any other time he’s going to work, because this is not a special occasion. It’s just a different time of day. He makes himself dinner, reads a couple chapters of the Hobbit because Charlie insisted he re-read it, and then at ten to five he fires up the Impala and drives to the bakery.

Dean doesn’t drive his baby much these days. She’s still his baby. He still loves her. But it is somewhat less practical now that he’s putting down roots. He has a neighborhood now, places he goes that are within walking distance. And now that he’s thinking about it, he doesn’t want to be behind the wheel all the time anymore. He spent too much time driving when he was running away from things. Drove to work, drove to the next town, drove away from his problems. He’s living a different life now. Most of that life can’t be lived behind a steering wheel.

Cas is already parked outside the bakery when he gets there. He’s leaning against the passenger side of his massive Continental in jeans and a t-shirt, more dressed down than Dean has ever seen him. Maybe he dresses like this at home all the time, Dean doesn’t know. He only sees Cas when he comes into the bakery which tends to be in the middle of his workday, so he’s always in a suit and frequently in a trench coat. It’s entirely possible Dean had plenty of opportunities to observe the security advisor in his natural habitat during his convalescence but it’s not like he poked his head out the door at any point in time, so Cas could have been lounging in clown costumes for all he knows. Point is he looks like an actual human being instead of just some customer guy, and it’s weird but also he looks pretty good. This thought, Dean actively tries to supress, because this is a kindness he’s doing for someone and nothing more, and he doesn’t need to be warring with the various parts of his brain that conversely desire and fear alphas.

Dean lets them into the bakery and disarms the alarm, his unpleasant conversation with Crowley  forefront in his mind as he does. Castiel pointedly looks away while he keys in his code though, ever the solicitous gentleman, and then lets Dean lead the way into the back of house for baking.

“So I never asked before,” Dean says, reaching for a spare jacket to pass to Cas, “but how many pies were you planning on bringing to this bake sale?”

 “I was originally going to make eight,” he replies. “We could do fewer though. I realize you’re giving up your evening off to be at work. I don’t want to keep you here too late.”

“Eight is no big deal,” Dean assures him. “We can assembly line the crusts and the fillings, and bake all of ‘em at once. Won’t take that long. I’m pretty much a pro at this.” Dean’s used to self deprecating humour so this whole building himself up thing feels odd, but Castiel laughs and it lights his eyes up in a way that is severely distracting. He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he changes the subject. “We got supplies for apple, pumpkin, blueberry, or cherry. I guess we could do lemon meringue too, but that’s a blind bake so it’s gonna throw off the timing.”

“I’m not really sure what blind means in this context so why don’t we just keep it simple. Apple and pumpkin.”

“It means we bake the pie shell empty, usually weighted with something, and then fill it with something that doesn’t need to be cooked. Lemon curd is…you know what? Nevermind. This isn’t a baking lesson. Apple and Pumpkin it is. You wanna start peeling apples while I make the dough?”

“Yes sir,” Cas replies. It reminds Dean of his first day here when Benny told him he’d smack him upside the head for that. With Cas though, it’s not fearful deference like Benny was trying to avoid, just casual acceptance of the direction. He shows Cas to the apples and gives him an idea of how many to peel, then sets about throwing together enough dough for four double crusts and four singles. Before long, he’s into the groove of baking just as he would be on an early shift, only there’s fewer people to dodge when he goes for supplies, and the sun peeking through the window in the back door is crawling closer to the horizon instead of climbing into the sky.

As he’s wrapping the dough up to chill, Dean wonders. Crowley seemed to know Castiel as more than just competition. He doesn’t think the asshole beta has any actual dirt on the guy, and god help him but he’s not actually concerned about Castiel. Still, he wonders what else is going on in that story.

“Hey, lemme ask you a question,” Dean asks, probably more casual than he feels.

“Sure,” Cas replies, not even taking his eyes off the apple he’s peeling.

“You know a guy named Crowley? About yay high, bag of dicks, delusions standing?” Dean pretends he doesn’t notice the way Cas freezes momentarily when he mentions the name. It’s there and gone in just a split second, but Dean notices these things. He has had to, over the years. It’s second nature.

“We’ve met,” Castiel says carefully. “I assume you have, as well.”

“Unfortunately,” Dean informs him.

“Agreed.” He sighs. “Call it professional competition, except only one of us is professional about it.”

“Sounds about right. Well anyway he’s working Benny hard to drop you like a hot potato.” It isn’t where Dean planned to go with this conversation. It was pure curiosity. But it seems only kind to keep him in the loop.

Castiel shrugs. “I’m not concerned. Benny is a clever businessman. There isn’t really anything Crowley can legitimately offer that will make it worth his while, and Benny wouldn’t be interested in anything he can offer illegitimately either. He’ll let it go once he realizes Lafitte’s isn’t a pawn he can use to screw me over. Good to know he’s crawled back out of his hole though. That guy always pops up sooner or later.”

“Good stuff,” Dean replies, unsure of what else to say. “How you coming with those apples?”

“Just about done peeling. You wanna show me how you need them sliced?” Dean comes around his side of the work table, ignoring the way his scent overpowers the apples and cinnamon in the air.

~*~

It’s dark when they finish baking pies. Dean grabs a couple of glasses of ice water and props open the back door with a chair once they’re out of the oven, and they sit out on the steps to cool off. It’s clear enough Dean can see a few stars, constellations he can’t name, but it’s peaceful and quiet and the cool air feels good on his face.

“So anyway,” Castiel says, “it’s not the most exciting job in the world, but I’m a surprisingly good salesman when I want to be, for someone with an intact moral compass.”

“Unlike a mutual acquaintance of ours,” Dean snorts.

Castiel shakes his head ruefully. “Exactly. Honestly his business is more like a protection racket than anything else. I’ve always been suspicious. Nothing I could back up with proof, but there’s been once or twice…” he trails off. “Nevermind. It’s wild speculation. We should pack those pies up. I’m sure you want to get home.”

Dean rolls his shoulders, stretching tired muscles. “Yeah I guess that’s a good idea.”

“I’m sorry I kept you so late. You didn’t have to stick around like this. You could have sent me on my way as soon as the pies were done.”

“I don’t mind.” Dean’s surprised to find he means it. “You’re not terrible company, and besides, what was it you said to me? You needed help, I was in a position to help.” He stands up and cracks his neck, resisting the urge to offer a hand to Cas to help him up. The smell of him invades Dean’s nostrils even just being this close. He’s not sure he could handle a touch of skin on skin right now, even just palm to palm. He has no idea what he’s doing socializing with an alpha like this, but it’s just occurring to Dean that he intentionally orchestrated a situation where he’d be alone in a locked building with Cas and he didn’t once find himself skittish and fearful.

“You…you didn’t do this because you feel like you owe me, did you?” Castiel asks. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say Cas sounded horrified.

“No!” Dean exclaims. “Not at all. I just mean. It’s the same kind of thing. It’s not a big deal.”

“So you promise you don’t feel indebted to me because of the…other thing?” Castiel stands, leaning against the rail.

“Not at all,” Dean assures him. “I mean, I’m grateful. Don’t get me wrong. But you made it pretty clear there were no strings attached, so anything nice I do for you, you can be sure it’s cause I feel like it, not because I think I owe you.”

That’s new, too. Not the doing nice things for people. The thing where Dean is in a position where an alpha could potentially make him feel like there’s a debt to be repaid. The thing where Dean is near enough to an alpha to smell his scent and doesn’t feel like running. The thing where he’s near an alpha and doesn’t particularly want to leave.

“So,” Castiel says slowly, carefully. “If I were to ask you to dinner, you wouldn’t feel like you had to accept if you don’t want to?”

Dean’s stomach lurches. It shouldn’t. This isn’t any bigger than spending a few hours making pie. It’s no bigger than offering to buy Cas coffee. It’s arguably smaller than letting Cas save his ass during a heat. But for some reason, that invitation twists him up in knots and makes him feel like he’s been dunked in ice water. “I…” is all he gets out before Castiel catches the look on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked. That was too forward.”

“No!” Dean cries. “It’s not. I just.” A heavy sigh. “I’ve got baggage, I guess you could say.”

Castiel nods sagely. “I understand. Offer stands, but lets just leave it on the table for now, okay? Pick it up if you decide you’re ready for it.”

“We should pack those pies up,” Dean says. He wishes he could just be that guy who says yes. That’s what he’s supposed to do, right? Find an alpha, mate and make a life? It’s literally what omegas exist for. And Dean always kinda figured he’d end up there anyway even if he never wanted to, but he never thought he’d be lucky enough to run into an alpha he didn’t loathe. Hell, Cas is someone he even kinda likes, and he’s easy on the eyes. And the way he smells? Heavenly. But even the idea of Cas, this safe, gentle, totally uncanny alpha, putting his hands on Dean makes that fight or flight response flare up so huge in the back of his mind it’s like he can’t see anything else.  It’s not even conscious. It’s this chemical thing, a thing his body does that his brain has no choice but to obey. Or maybe it’s the other way around, because his body wants Cas, but his brain sends out this panicked anxiety and none of the rest of it matters anymore.

Dean is glad he drove his own car home, because even with the windows down, he can smell his own slick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW that ovens can, in fact, do exactly that, because I was baking challah for KreweofImp when she came to town to marry the heck out of me and that exact thing happened to my oven. I had to bake the bread at a friend's house.


	20. Soul Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me fandom, for I have sinned. It has been 31 days since my last update.
> 
> I have nothing to say for myself.

“So how’d the pie project go,” Benny asks the next morning. He’s clearly unconcerned, just being conversational, but Dean suddenly feels like he’s on trial. Is this what people are talking about when they tell you not to mix business with pleasure?

“Good,” he says, and it’s not really a lie. The pies came out great. The bakery is still standing. Nobody suffered any lacerations. Dean didn’t feel trapped in a locked bakery with an alpha, which he probably would have if he’d taken five minutes to overthink the situation before he actually got there. He supposes the fact that he didn’t stop to ponder that is some kind of personal growth or something. Or maybe just the scent of Cas shuts down the part of his brain that decides how to react to alphas. If he mentioned in to Charlie she’d probably have some folklore about true mates or something to throw at him, but he’s not sure he believes in that and he’s even less sure he wants to hear it in the first place.

“That’s all you got? Good?”

Dean blushes, hiding it by directing his face and his focus towards the apple turnovers he’s assembling. “I mean, we made some pies, nothing went wrong, it was fun.”

“Fun, hey?” Benny chuckles. “Didn’t know you were familiar with the term. Think he might be the first person other than Celeste that I’ve seen you socialize with since you set foot in this place.”

“I guess,” Dean replies. “You know you’re the only person that calls her that, right?”

“I do know,” Benny confirms. “Everybody else calls her by her nickname, and she likes that, but she likes her real name too. So if you’re making friends and having a social life now, does that mean you’re gonna take me up on the  of dinner some day?”

And for once, Dean doesn’t feel like he needs to hide. “I think I could manage that. Long as it’s not on a work night. My boss hates it when I’m grumpy ‘cause I didn’t sleep enough.”

“Your boss thinks you’re a little shit,” Benny grumbles. “Sunday then, since you’re off Mondays.”

“Should I bring anything?” Dean asks, already knowing the answer he’s going to receive. He likes to believe his mother would have raised him to have manners if she’d had the chance, so he asks anyway.

“An appetite, and Celeste if she ain’t got plans.”

“I think I can manage that,” Dean assures him. “She hasn’t stopped talking about Andrea’s gumbo since I moved in.”

~*~

Dean thinks a lot about Cas’s invite.

He thinks about how nice it would be if he could just accept it. He likes Cas. More than he thought possible to like an alpha, actually. He’s sickeningly attractive and awkward as hell and not at all what Dean has come to expect, and in spite of everything he likes the guy. The smell of him invaded Dean’s nose and clung to his clothes the whole drive home from the great pie baking experiment. Even if Dean didn’t objectively appreciate his features, the dusting of stubble on his jaw and the perpetual mess of his hair and the clear blue of his eyes, it would be entirely safe to say his body appreciates the alpha. There is something chemical between them that Dean can’t tell if he should be terrified of or just wary. Anything softer than that never even seems like an option. But it’s there, this spark of something, and curiosity is about as strong as fear, so Dean is woefully unequipped to deal with it.

The offer is on the table, and that’s where it’ll sit until Dean decides to pick it up. That’s what Cas said. No strings. He’s not going to push. That should be comforting. That’s what Dean fears about alphas, right? The pushing. The demands. The fact that most of them, should they decide they wanted to, could very easily ignore his opinion and take what they want, and that those ones don’t look any different than the ones that would never. Except Cas is clearly different. Cas isn’t a threat. If it weren’t for his scent, Dean would have an easy time believing he’s beta. He doesn’t behave in any of the ways Dean has grown to expect and dread. But it might be easier if he did. That sounds so fucked up even when Dean just says it inside his own head, but really. If he got a little pushy, Dean could just push him away and stop this dance. Or maybe the push would be enough to make Dean decide what he actually wants. It figures. The one time he might actually want an alpha to go alpha on him, and it’s nowhere to be found.

Dean wishes he knew his own mind well enough to say whether he’d ever be ready to take Cas up on the offer, but this is entirely uncharted territory.

The coffee thing is still on the table too, and much less daunting than Cas’ offer. Dean’s not really sure why. The context doesn’t feel that much different. Maybe it’s because he’s the one who suggested coffee. Maybe it’s a control thing. Who fucking knows.

He’s still pondering that when Charlie shows up for her shift a few hours later. Hell, he’s probably going to be thinking about it for days. Weeks, if he hasn’t done anything about it by then. Knowing Dean, he won’t have.

“What’s eating you, dork?” Charlie prods at him. Somehow the teasing softens the whole mother hen thing. It’s a fine line.

“Nothing,” he lies. “You got plans Sunday? Benny’s making dinner.”

Charlie stops in her tracks. “And you’re _going?_ ”

Dean shrugs.

“First of all, even if I did have plans, I would cancel everything for Andrea’s gumbo. But I’m so glad to see you’re actually taking boss-man up on the offer. It’s about time you crawled out of our cave and saw some humans that aren’t me for a change. Who knows, you start making friends, maybe you’ll meet a cute girl you can set me up with.” She winks at him, but Dean’s not entirely certain she isn’t serious.

~*~

By the time Sunday rolls around, Dean still hasn’t figured out exactly where he stands on the Cas thing, and he’s not sure he’s any closer to figuring it out. If a person could make a career out of overthinking, Dean would probably be rolling in disposable income. As it stands, with the decent wage Benny pays him and the fact that the early shifts leave him too tired to go out and spend money most of the time, he’s doing okay, but a guy can dream.

Even though Dean has few enough opportunities to drive the Impala outside of getting groceries these days, Charlie already knows where Benny’s house is so they take her Gremlin. Dean tries to keep his hands from nervously drumming on his knees as she navigates the neighborhood. It shouldn’t be nerve-wracking. It’s just his boss, right? Benny’s a good dude. There isn’t any reason to be stressed. But how long has it been since Dean really let anyone get to know him? How long until someone starts poking holes in his façade and finds him lacking? If they’d driven in the Impala at least he could bail if things get rough, but with Charlie at the helm he is without an escape route.

Dean mentally scolds himself. It’s time to stop thinking like that and he knows it. He doesn’t always need an escape route. He doesn’t need a back up plan for dealing with his friends. He just has to tell himself that enough times that he starts believing it, that it drowns out the other, uglier voice in his head that tells him all the ways things are going to go wrong.

Charlie parks the car outside a modest split level with unkempt hedges along the driveway and kills the engine. It’s only twilight, but there is warm light glowing from the windows, making the place look comforting and inviting. Charlie leads him to the door, smiling over her shoulder, and rings the bell.

_Last chance to cut and run_ , Dean thinks to himself. He manages to supress the urge until the door opens and the opportunity is gone. Benny smiles broadly at them, stepping back to usher Dean and Charlie into his home. Immediately, Dean can smell the delicious aroma of the gumbo simmering on the stove, all manner of spices combining with the andouille sausage to create a mouthwatering scent the likes of which he’s never smelled before. There’s something baking as well, but the gumbo is such a strong and inviting smell that he can’t tell what it is.

“Glad you guys could make it,” Benny tells them sincerely. “Beer?”

Dean accepts with gratitude, and they follow Benny into the kitchen where a dark haired woman is stirring a pot on the stove and humming to herself. She turns as they enter, setting her spoon down to greet the new arrivals.

“You must be Dean,” she says warmly. She wraps him in a hug before he can even think to protest. “Benny’s been telling me all about you but I was beginning to think he made you up. Never had anyone hold out on the dinner invite this long before.”

“I’m real, ma’am,” Dean says awkwardly.

“ _Ma’am?_ ” she repeats incredulously. “Benny, where did you find this one? Do I look old enough to be a ma’am now?” Dean cringes.

“Andrea,” Benny says, his tone gently warning.

“Oh, I’m just teasing. There’s no need for manners like that around here Dean. Keep your boots off the table and we should get along just fine.” Andrea flashes him a grin and turns back around to her gumbo. Benny passes Dean and Charlie each a beer from the fridge.

“How’s Kevin doing, Celeste? You hear from him much these days?” It takes Dean a moment to realize that Benny is asking about her old roommate, the one who moved out just in time to save Dean’s ass.

“We game sometimes. Not much conversation, but he’s still kicking. Busy as heck at school though, so he’s not the most reliable raiding buddy anymore.”

“Glad to see you’ve still got your priorities in order,” Benny teases.

“Hey, I got priorities aplenty! Cooperative gameplay is an important part of social development and creates lasting bonds of friendship. I read it somewhere.”

“I think that means kids,” Dean interjects.

“This coming from the adult with the stunted social development,” she replies with a wink.

“For the last time,” Dean tells her, “I’m not joining your SpaceCraft guild.”

“That isn’t even a _thing,_ ” Charlie sighs. “It’s Warcraft. Or Starcraft, but I haven’t played that in forever.”

Dean rolls his eyes. They’ve had this conversation more than once. “Whatever. We both know my laptop couldn’t handle that, and I’m not interested.”

“Not even if I tell you Cas is in the guild?”

“He—What?” Dean blurts out. She’s never mentioned this before.

“Now that’s just mean,” Benny chides her. “He ain’t. That boy’s got some strange hobbies, but this ain’t one of ‘em.”

“You are absolutely no fun at all,” Charlie pouts, even. “I barely even got a reaction out of him.”

Dean hopes that’s the last time Cas comes up in conversation this evening, but he has the feeling he won’t be quite that lucky.

~*~

When they sit down to dinner, Dean’s still nursing his second beer, aware of the absurdity of feeling the need to keep his wits about him when surrounded by betas and an omega. Nothing is going to happen to him here and he knows that, but it’s not a habit that dies easy. You’d think he’d want liquid courage if that’s how he’s feeling. Part of him does. But another part of him knows how unsteady he is when he’s been drinking, how his reflexes are dulled and his inhibitions lowered. How he gets into situations he’d have seen coming if he wasn’t intoxicated. How it leaves him vulnerable.

“This smells amazing,” he tells Benny and Andrea earnestly. There are steaming bowls of gumbo set in front of each of them and more in a pot at the centre of the table. Dean can see chunks of sausage and chicken in the broth, dark with spices. He assumes the green pieces are okra, though he wouldn’t know okra if it jumped up and punched him in the face, but he’s been told that’s a thing that is in gumbo. It smells like comfort.

Andrea sets a slice of cornbread on a plate beside Dean’s bowl. “Thank you,” she says with a smile. “Just wait until you taste it. I’ve been honing this recipe for years, so it’s a little different every time, but there’s nothing quite like it.”

Charlie digs into her meal without hesitation, making happy little noises at the taste, so Dean follows suit. The first bite hits his tongue and suddenly Dean wonders how he lived without tasting gumbo before. Andrea’s right. There is nothing quite like it. There’s a richness to the broth that seems like more than just the sum of its parts, an almost buttery texture. The sausage is tender but the casing still snaps just a little when he bites into it, and the chicken is absolute perfection. There is something about the combination of spices that is so complex and intricate he thinks he might never guess every single one if he ate nothing but gumbo for the rest of his life. He closes his eyes and lets the flavour wash over him.

“You see why I keep telling you to quit turning down invitations?” Charlie asks with a wry smile. “This is what you’ve been missing out on.”

“I won’t say I’ll never doubt you again, because I know for a damn fact you’ll abuse that, but you were definitely right about this. The gumbo is definitely worth it.” Dean catches Benny side-eying him playfully and quickly adds, “and I suppose the company is alright too.”

“Well hopefully now that you know we don’t bite you won’t be such a stranger,” Andrea says diplomatically. “My husband tells me you just moved to town a little while ago, is that right?”

Dean nods around a mouthful of food. “Yep,” he says when he can speak again. “A few months ago now. Met Benny right when I first got here, so I’ve been in town about as long as I’ve been at the bakery.” He’s hoping Benny has also told her that Dean doesn’t really like talking about his past so he doesn’t have to be cagey. He really doesn’t want to talk about his years on the road.

“Well, you picked a good place to settle down,” she says matter-of-factly. “Every place has its oddities, that’s a fact, but we take care of our own here, and you’re definitely one of ours now. I know Benny must have told you this a dozen times, but you need help with anything you just ask.”

Dean’s pretty sure he won’t, if it comes up, because he still hasn’t learned how to get over that, but he assures her he will anyway.

~*~

They’re sitting around drinking beer and picking at the remnants of a truly spectacular bourbon pecan pie when Dean realizes he’s let himself get a little tipsy. Not drunk, per se, but definitely not level headed. He couldn’t drive right now, for example, but he can still walk in a straight line. But he’s fuzzy, and it kinda snuck up on him. It’s been a while since he last got drunk for any reason other than to escape his problems, so it feels a bit foreign to be anything but morose right now. It does, however, make him feel warm and almost happy, so he rolls with it.

“How did you and Cas meet?” Charlie asks Benny. Dean’s ears perk up at the mention of the name. That probably says something. So does the fact that he’s made concerted efforts to keep Cas out of the conversation the whole evening. He does not share this observation with the class.

“Just a business networking thing a few years back. Originally I just took his card ‘cause I needed a security system for the bakery, but we ended up pitching in together on a fundraiser not long after.”

“Dashing good looks _and_ a philanthropist?” Charlie says pointedly. Dean can feel her eyes on him. He says nothing.

“Yeah,” Benny continues, ignoring her absurdity. “You know he does a lot of fundraising for the Omega shelter, right?”

“Really?” Dean chimes in, now intrigued.

“Offsite stuff, of course, ‘cause he knows how intimidating it could be to have an alpha on premises over there, but he organizes bottle drives and don’t tell him I told you this, but he installed their security system practically for free. Or rather, one of the beta guys from the company did it on his behalf. Dean, Charlie, you need another beer?”

Charlie shrugs. “What the hell, I’m already gonna have to get us a cab home and pick my car up in the morning. Might as well enjoy myself.” She elbows Dean to get his attention. “What about you kid?”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” Dean replies. “Why not.” But he’s not thinking about beer. He’s thinking about Cas.


	21. Licorice and Lavender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block is a little bitch.
> 
> On one hand, I want to tell you that anyone who says the best way to get over writer's block is to start working on a different project that you DON'T feel blocked on, is not your friend. They are your enemy. They hate you and they want you to suffer. They're a little bitch just like writer's block.
> 
> On the other hand, I got struck with inspiration for a new Destiel fic like a bolt out of the blue the other day, literally upon reading a single word in a work document that somehow made me think of a setting already half way constructed with rich history and elaborate backstory, and I busted through like 5 chapters of that in the course of DAYS, I'm not even kidding, before finally feeling like I had anything of value to contribute to this fic so...  
> maybe both sides have some merit.
> 
> Anyway, here. Have a chapter. Hopefully there's more where this came from or whatever

It was midnight before Dean and Charlie poured themselves into a cab, promises to text Benny when they got home safely flowing as freely as the drinks had, so naturally, Dean wakes up at 6. For him, that’s a sleep in, but it doesn’t feel like much of one. He can tell from the utter stillness outside his bedroom door that his roommate is more successful at remaining asleep so he stays in bed, warm and cozy under the blankets but not holding out any hope of drifting off. Instead he takes a few moments to think on how different his life is now than when he first rolled into town, desperate for a way to keep a roof over his head. His only friends were Jack, Johnny and José back then. Now he’s lucky enough to have comrades who are good for something other than punishing his liver. He’s got people who insist on having him over for dinner because they enjoy his company and want to share food with him. He’s got people who go out of their way to think about him when he’s not around. More than a roof over his head, he’s got a home.

It’s kinda staggering, actually. He never really thought he’d have this. Never dared to dream.

Sometimes he wishes his dad was still around. Dean doesn’t miss him. Not even a little. But it might be nice to shove this in his face, to show him that not everyone thinks he’s some shameful thing. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to show John that Dean’s doing okay despite the horrible start, despite dropping out of school and running away from his problems. That despite all that, he’s found a place that he might not necessarily belong, but at least he fits.

If wishes were horses, they say, all beggars would ride. Dean would need a whole stable for all his. Dad died a long time ago, and now he’s not talking to Sam either, so maybe family has nothing to do with blood.

Eventually, Dean gets tired of lying in bed with only his thoughts for company, so he throws on sweatpants and trundles to the kitchen to make coffee. Charlie is still dead to the world. Hopefully she’s lucky enough to avoid a hangover. Nothing to do for it now, in any case. Dean sits at the kitchen table and listens to the coffee maker percolate away, and counts his blessings. For the first time in his life, it feels like there are enough to bother counting.

~*~

Dean drinks an entire pot of coffee and reads half a Harry Potter book before Charlie wakes up. He sets down Order of the Phoenix when he hears her door open and looks up in time to see his roommate shuffle out into the common area with all the grace and poise of a reanimated corpse. He calls out a greeting but gets only a laboured grunt in response, so instead he abandons his seat on the couch and makes his way to the kitchen to pour her a cup of coffee. That, at least, gets him a grateful grin in response, but she does not seem capable of words quite yet.

Dean pours himself another cup and waits in silence while Charlie reboots her brain. He knows it doesn’t work that fast, that the first couple of sips don’t have any tangible effect on cognition, but damn if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. After a couple minutes she has drained at least half the cup and her eyes are open more than mere slivers.

“I’m never drinking again,” she pronounces ruefully.

“That bad, huh?’”

“Something died in my mouth. I’m sure of it.” She takes another swig of coffee, then steps over to the pot to refill it.

“So you probably aren’t in the mood for pancakes then, hey?” Dean knows he’s being an ass, but the teasing is kind of par for the course with his roommate at this point.

Charlie turns several shades of green. “If you so much as mention food again, I will straight up murder you. They’ll never find your body.”

“Duly noted,” Dean laughs. He manages to get at least a bit of water into the poor kid before they curl up on the couch with a laundry list of movies to get through. Charlie looks like she might fall back asleep at any minute, but it’s not like Dean had any plans today anyway so a lazy afternoon of movies sounds just fine to him.

Though he’s totally paying attention to the movies, Dean’s hands keep fiddling with his phone. He doesn’t really feel like playing any dumb games right now and he never quite mastered the multitasking required to watch a movie and read emails at the same time, but he can’t seem to put it down. Charlie, exhausted as she is, doesn’t notice, but Dean is acutely aware that she’d be calling him out on it any other time. He also knows she’d have solid opinions about why.

Rather than run the risk of this tiny firebrand catching his unease and making a comment, Dean does something he isn’t used to doing. He acts.

_Hey Cas, how about that coffee?_

He sends the text before he can reconsider.

~*~

Dean would like to pretend he’s cool as a cucumber in the days leading up to his coffee date with Cas, though he’s aware the illusion doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. They’re meeting up Friday afternoon because that’s the next solid chunk of daytime that Cas doesn’t have clients booked in for consultations.

Dean still can’t really believe he manned up and sent the text. He feels like an idiot getting worked up about it. It’s just coffee.

With a guy he likes.

With an _alpha_ he likes.

In between, he bakes and he sleeps and he doesn’t get up to much else, not that it’s a huge change for him. But as Friday approaches he gets a little nervous and then a lot nervous and then he thinks about backing out.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Charlie asks when he gets home from work on Thursday. He wasn’t aware he was projecting any kind of insecurity but either the girl is psychic or he has the worst poker face in the game. Dean makes a mental note to stay far, far away from Vegas.

“Nothing,” he lies unconvincingly.

“Really? ‘Cause I talked to Cas this afternoon?” she replies, challenging him.

Dean pales. “What did he say?” His mind is going a mile a minute. Maybe Cas wants to cancel the date (not a date, definitely not a date, just coffee). That would be convenient, right? Then Dean wouldn’t have to get himself all worked up about it. Or what if he decided Dean is just too much of a hot mess to waste his time on? Or. Shit. Why is Dean a teenage girl all of a sudden?

“Nothing I didn’t already know, just that you guys are going out for coffee tomorrow, which, by the way, you are terrible at keeping secrets.” That confirms the poker face theory. “But put that together with the way you nearly hit the ceiling when I mentioned his name, I’m taking a stab in the dark and guessing you’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.” Neither of them believes him.

Charlie sighs, long suffering. “Dean. Why do you do this to yourself. You know you’re allowed to have nice things right? Like coffee with other human beings who think you’re okay company?”

“I’m just gonna find some way to ruin it,” Dean confesses, sinking down onto the couch still in his flour-covered work clothes. “I should just tell him I can’t make it.”

“Why am I friends with such _idiots?”_ Charlie mutters, almost as if Dean wasn’t meant to hear it, but it was clearly loud enough for him to catch. “You should go, because it’s just a cup of fucking coffee, and it is not even close to the worst thing that’s ever happened in the world, let alone in your life. Listen, I don’t pry, and you don’t open up, so I’m dealing with a vague outline of a backstory here but obviously you have been through some shit. I get it. But here’s a thing I learned the hard way. Cutting yourself off, keeping everyone at arm’s length? That’s a super effective way to keep yourself safe because nobody is close enough to hurt you. But that distance also keeps the good stuff away. You gotta be a bit vulnerable if you want to let people make your life better. Just, you know, keep being selective about who you’re vulnerable with. Let Cas get to know you, get to know him. I put up with both of your stupid asses so I can vouch for each one of you, but I feel like you should probably just, you know, have friends?” She sits down beside him on the couch and throws an arm around his shoulder. “You’re okay kid. But you could be better than okay. You could be happy.”

Dean’s still not sure he believes her on that last bit, but she sounds convincing enough. “Thanks, Charles. You don’t suck either.”

“Yeah I know,” she says with a crooked smile. “Look just go for coffee. That’s all you gotta do. And also make me a batch of knishes because I got my grandma’s recipe and you know I’ll just burn the apartment down if I try to bake things.”

“You know you could learn right? I mean you know more than a few people who bake. Staying away from the oven is a great way to avoid setting things on fire but it also keeps away the good things, like knishes and brownies.” Dean elbows her in the ribs, taunting, and she snorts an ugly laugh.

“Using my own good advice back at me, sarcastically? Dean Winchester, I am so damn proud of you! But seriously though. Knishes. The potato ones.”

~*~

So Dean doesn’t cancel his date with Cas. Not date. Whatever. He doesn’t cancel it. He also loses some sleep Thursday night as a result, but Charlie doesn’t need to know that.

Friday after work he rushes home to shower, then puts on the first clean pair of jeans he can find and his faded Zeppelin tee. Cas texts him right on time to say he’s parked outside. Most people would ring the buzzer on the front of the apartment building but Dean gets the impression that Cas doesn’t want to seem like he’s inviting himself in, and he’s always so cautious about respecting Dean’s space and his safety that it’s almost kind of cute. Not that cute is a word Dean uses regularly, but it fits.

Dean steps out the front door to find Cas sitting in the driver’s seat of his Continental, grinning when he sees Dean. He climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind him.

“Hello Dean,” Cas greets him, just a little bit awkward.

“Hey,” Dean replies.

There’s a brief awkward silence as Cas pulls away from the curb, checking over his shoulder and signalling. The radio isn’t on, and come to think of it he hasn’t heard it on any other time he’s been in Cas’ car so it might well be broken.

Dean could fix that, probably, but he doesn’t really know Cas well enough to offer so he keeps it to himself, fully aware that he helped this man bake an absurd number of pies not too long ago so a car radio shouldn’t seem out of the realm of reasonable. Dean doesn’t make sense in his own mind sometimes.

“So I figure you’ve had enough coffee from the place near the bakery, right?” Cas asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah I mean I don’t hate it though.”

Cas laughs. It’s infectious. “I know. But I thought you might like to get coffee somewhere different. There’s a place over on Chestnut Street that does really neat latte art on all their drinks, and they have open mic nights sometimes. I don’t think we’ll end up staying that late since you have to work tomorrow, but I thought you might like it there.”

Dean smiles to himself. Cas thought about what he might like. And his work schedule. And he is pretty sure he was meant to notice how obviously Cas dropped the location into conversation in case Dean was wondering where he was being taken. “Sounds good,” he replies, on all counts. “So how’d you get into the security thing? You don’t really strike me as a career sales type of guy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Cas confirms. “This is going to sound incredibly cliché, but honestly I like it because it lets me meet people. There’s, you know, a lot of good folks out there who need security for one reason or another and yeah, I’m making money, but I like that I’m helping while I do it. A guy like Benny built his business from the ground up, no advantages, and it’s important he be able to protect that. People who have been through trauma, sometimes they need something like a security system or a panic button to be able to sleep at night. And I get to be a part of those people protecting what’s important to them. I don’t sell security systems. I sell peace of mind. See? Super cliché.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a chuckle. “But it’s not the worst reason to choose a job.”

“That’s true enough. So what about you? I bet you didn’t grow up wanting to be a baker.”

Dean pauses. He doesn’t like to think about growing up. When he and Sam were kids, he tried to pretend he could grow up to be whatever he wanted, but it was mostly a brave face he put on for his kid brother. Even back then, Dean kinda knew he’d never amount to anything, and that was before he presented and his dad started flat out telling him he wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “I didn’t mean to pry.” When Dean glances at him sideways, he looks sad.

“No, it’s…I just can’t remember actually having a plan for when I grew up.”

“Nobody has plans,” Cas informs him matter-of-factly. “Just dreams.” They pull up in front of a coffee shop with a purple awning and a couple of empty patio tables out front. Cas kills the engine and they get out.

Inside the coffee shop it’s a lot more like a lounge than a café. There’s big overstuffed armchairs and low tables, eclectic lamps that don’t match, and in one corner a stage that must play host to that open mic night Cas was talking about. They walk up to the counter, taking in the expansive menu on the chalkboard.  “I have no idea what half this stuff is,” Dean admits.

“Me either,” Cas agrees. “Pick something at random?” Dean shrugs. Why not.

They grab seats away from the door where it’s a little quieter. The mid-afternoon crowd is mostly students on laptops but there’s still a bit of a bustle. The espresso machine steams and hisses, there’s the ubiquitous clanking of cups, the low thrum of voices, all cast over the backdrop of whatever weird hipster music the baristas are listening to. Dean just kinda takes it all in, on alert as usual but calmed by the fact that he’s not alone. He’s rarely alone, really, but having someone else in the crowded room that knows him is a balm for his nerves.

Cas collects their beverages when the barista calls their names. Dean picked out the dumbest sounding name on the menu, having no idea what was in it, and Cas sets this purplish milky cup down in front of him.

“Your lavender mist,” he says, suppressing laughter.

“Shut up,” Dean says, but there’s no heat in it. He takes a sip and tries to sort out the flavors. Some kind of tea, he thinks, and he’s spent enough time in a bakery to know good vanilla when he tastes it. The foam on top is decorated with what looks like food coloring or maybe some kind of jam? He’s stumped. It’s in the shape of a flower anyway, the purple petals slowly fading into the milk foam. It’s a prettier beverage than he would usually choose, but it doesn’t taste like ass, so there’s that. “How’s yours?”

“Well apparently the ‘black like my soul’,” he makes air quotes, endearingly awkward, “means coffee with some kind of licorice syrup in it. I think you made the better choice.”

Dean grimaces, but he’s a dumbass, so he asks to try it anyway. They trade cups, Dean wincing at the taste of black coffee and black licorice. It’s too intense and leaves his mouth feeling like it’s full of dirt. Cas hums pleasantly when he sips Dean’s drink, but he passes it back just the same.

“So okay, forget childhood dreams, what do you want for the future now? Is that safe to ask?”

Dean supposes it ought to be, but damned if he has a good answer in mind. He shrugs. “I just wanna be happy, you know? I haven’t really had much of that.”

“An admirable aspiration,” Cas says with a nod. “Do you think this is somewhere you can be happy?”

“I’ve got friends here,” Dean tells him, thinking about that signboard the night he almost left. “That’s a damn good start to putting down roots.”

Dating is challenging. Or not dating. Dean hasn’t decided which one this is yet. But small-talk is death, and he doesn’t know enough about Cas to feel like he knows what to ask, and Cas is clearly skirting around what he’s worried will be prying questions. Dean hasn’t been to a movie theatre in god only knows how long so there’s no point in trying to discuss pop culture. Current events are about as depressing as Dean’s childhood, so he’s not bringing those up.

It feels like, as well as it started, the date (not date) (whatever) is about to fizzle out, when Cas does the most amazing thing. He sets his horrid licorice beverage down on the table and looks at Dean with great interest, and he says, “So tell me about your car.”

~*~

The only reason they’re not still in the café talking by the time the open mic starts several hours later is because Cas catches Dean yawning and insists on driving him home. Once Cas got him talking about his baby, it was easy. Dean talked about his car, which got him talking about working on cars, something he could run his mouth on for hours if anyone was willing to listen. This led Cas to mention that his car stereo is, in fact, broken, which lead to Dean offering to take a look at it on his day off some time, which lead to Cas telling him he’ll buy Dean dinner if he can get it running again.

Without even thinking, Dean accepted, a fact he’s still dissecting when Cas’ Continental pulls up outside Dean’s building. There’s a charged moment where Dean hesitates to open the door, stuck between leaning towards Cas for some kind of an awkward in-car hug or a kiss, and just bolting out the door and not looking back until all three deadbolts are secure behind him. Cas is looking at him, and he’s looking at Cas, and he doesn’t know why except that he wants to but he leans in and gently brushes his lips against Cas’s. Cas looks startled for a brief second, then pleased. It’s barely enough to qualify as a kiss, but Dean feels good about it anyway.

He licks his lips as he’s unlocking the door to the apartment, and he catches just the faintest hint of licorice.

 


	22. Moment of Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really struggling to move this story along right now so I'm sorry for the delay in posting. I'm sure at some point I'll reach a moment where the dam breaks and I can get back to chapters with some kind of regularity but it is currently challenging. Thanks for sticking with me!

This dream is not the usual dream. He’s in the church like usual, the stained glass casting hazy shades of red and green and purple at his feet, but something feels different. Dean wishes he could say why, but it defies definition. It’s just a feeling he gets. A sensation. Something tugging at his mind like if he could just find the source of the interference it would unlock secrets and lay it all out before him, but anything he manages to seize turns to smoke in his hands, metaphorically speaking. His boots feel unfathomably heavy as they ring on the stone floor, and ephemerally weightless, and all at once like he has no feet at all. He tries to stop the slow plodding forward so he doesn’t have to approach the dais, knowing full well that he will find no success. It’s an old familiar game by now, but still he tries.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see people sitting in the pews, near-faceless placeholders for the real churchgoers that would sit here if it were a real church. They don’t appear to notice him so he makes no move to acknowledge them or at least, he wouldn’t, if his movements were his own.

Dean stops before he reaches the dais, surprised to find himself standing still, and stares at the weighty bible where it sits. It looms before him and he can practically see the words that would be there if he only stepped closer. It’s always that same line, that same condemnation. It rings in his ears.

Dean doesn’t wake from the dream like usual, but instead drifts out of his personal prison and into a proper sleep. It fades, as dreams do, until it’s only the ghost of a memory on his mind. Hours later, when the morning light brightens his room, he will barely know he dreamed it.

~*~

When Dean does wake, it comes slowly. His consciousness comes back to him little by little, in the natural way that normal people wake up instead of the horrendous blaring of an alarm clock at some godawful hour of the morning. He rolls over in his bed, snugging the blankets around him and burrowing his face into the pillow to get closer to the intoxicating aroma that is pulling at him. It fills his nostrils and delights his senses, and he can’t quite put his finger on what it is or why he’s smelling it in his bedroom, but he wants more of it. Wants to cloak himself in it, breathe deep and take the scent into him. It makes him feel like he’s wrapped in clouds, drifting away, peaceful and content and safe. All the things he’s never had. Each breath gives him just a little more warmth and comfort, brings him just a little bit more towards wakefulness, until finally he wakes enough to open his eyes. Naturally, the first thing he does is cast his eyes around to find the source of this delicious, intoxicating smell, feeling almost certain in his bones of what he will see, though he couldn’t say what that thing is, only that he will know it.

He finds nothing.

Dean sniffs the air again, finds no trace of the scent. It’s disheartening, for sure, but as his faculties return to him it becomes entirely obvious what he thought to find, what the source of that smell is.

Or rather, not what, but whom.

Awake now as he is, and capable of thinking a bit more clearly, Dean knows why he recognized the scent, though he hasn’t got a clue why he dreamed of smelling it so viscerally.

Cas. The heady, mouth-watering scent of the alpha he’s been dancing around.

Dean practically throws himself back down in bed, pulling the blankets up over his face to hide his shame. How is this even a thing? He could ask Charlie. Maybe it’s just like, something omegas do when they spend a reasonable amount of time around an alpha. Only, that would involve admitting to Charlie that he dreamed of Cas’ scent, and also discussing the amount of time he’s been spending with Cas. He managed to get away without spilling any details of their trip to the weird coffee place, and brushed off questions about their next meeting with a shrug and an excuse about fixing Cas’ car radio, but eventually, she’s gonna try to weasel it out of him.

Not for the first time, Dean curses his very biology for making him present so late that he missed out on all the education about this crap, and also just in general, because being omega has never made his life anything but complicated. After an hour or so of trying in vain to fall back asleep, Dean finally gives up and drags himself out of bed, but the scent of Cas still lingers in his memory just as surely as if he’d actually smelled it.

~*~

The third date.

If sitcom tropes are to be believed (and Dean is mostly sure they’re not but it’s still part of the fabric of society to talk like they are), this is the date when people expect sex. Theoretically you have gotten to know each other well enough to know if that’s something you want, but mostly Dean thinks it’s pressure to make sure you’re sexually compatible before you commit emotionally or whatever. It’s all theoretical in Dean’s mind. He doesn’t date. There have been beta and omega partners for one night stands and a few repeat performances, but dating? No.

Dean isn’t even sure if this qualifies as the third date. He supposes it depends on what counts as a date. The first time they spent any real time together was the day they baked pies, but that was either a work thing or a volunteerism thing. They were alone for several hours though, and they got to know each other a bit, so maybe? And then they went for coffee, the weird place with the lavender mist and the licorice coffee. That one definitely counts. It was intended as a date. Then he fixed the radio in Cas’ ancient Continental, but afterwards they ate pizza and listened to one of Dean’s Zep cassettes to make sure it worked properly. Again, on the fence.

So really, depending on a person’s definition of date, this could be either the second, the third, or the fourth date.

And Dean is panicking.

It was different when he fucked betas. First of all, there was no emotional element involved. It was purely sexual. He’d find someone attractive, they may or may not exchange names, everybody had a good time, and Dean went on his way. After the whole incident that set him on the road in the first place that kind of lost its appeal, but it was definitely easier back then.

This is. This is something else entirely. He actually cares what Cas thinks of him for some insane reason. Because he let roots grow here. Because he has friends here. Because Cas seems to actually care about Dean as a complete person rather than a warm place to stick his dick, and that means that all the ways in which Dean interacts with alphas (ie; he doesn’t) are entirely useless. And as much as it frightens him, goddamnit, Dean wants sex with Cas. He wants all those things. His body wants it like he can’t even fathom, and his brain is kind of on board, but the thought terrifies him and he doesn’t know how to reconcile those things. And if the third date is the one where people are ‘supposed to’ have sex, then it would explain the crushing strain he’s fighting with. Cas hasn’t put any pressure on him, but maybe he’s expecting it. Maybe it’s assumed. Dean doesn’t know how he’s going to handle that if it comes up. He doesn’t have a plan.

He changes his shirt for the third time and heads out the door to meet Cas, his heart hammering in his chest.

~*~

Dean picks Cas up at his house, still incredibly nervous. Fortunately, he’s got a lifetime of pretending not to be afraid of things under his belt, so it probably doesn’t show outwardly. Except, Dean realizes belatedly, in his scent. A twitch of Cas’ nose says he notices.

“You look nice,” Cas offers instead of commentary on Dean’s nerves. His smile is soft. Dean looks down at his maroon button-down shirt and the least broken-in jeans he owns.

“Thanks,” he replies. “You too.” Cas isn’t any more dressed up than Dean is but somehow he looks sharp and composed, like an alpha should. He usually looks much more relaxed, with his unkempt hair and that ill-fitting trench coat, but somewhere under all that there’s a well-muscled body full of alpha strength.

“So where are we headed?” Dean asks when they get back in the car.

“Are you in the mood for burgers?” Cas replies instead of actually answering. Dean laughs.

“Always.”

Not that Dean goes out for dinner on his own regularly, or ever, but he pays close attention to the directions Cas gives him to get to the restaurant just in case he ever needs to find it for himself again. There’s still a great deal of bustle about the city given the early hour, but traffic isn’t too bad so it’s a nice easy cruise. The whole way there though, Dean’s mind still weighs heavy with all his stresses and worries.

A waiter seats them at the back of the restaurant, which initially gives Dean additional worries, until he remembers that he’s here with an alpha, one who gives a shit, and he’s actually probably safer here than pretty much anywhere else out in public. After the waiter takes their drink orders and drifts off into the background of the restaurant, Dean’s torn between perusing the menu and chatting with Cas, and therefore unable to focus on either.

“I always get the same thing when I come here,” Cas admits, magically bridging the competing tracks in Dean’s mind. “I keep trying to make myself pick something different but I always come back to the bacon cheddar burger.”

“Why mess with perfection?” Dean replies, but as his eyes skim down the menu he can understand why it’s hard not to consider the others. There’s a lamb burger with mint chutney, one that has a bison patty and deep fried jalapenos, and something with pork and chorizo and salsa that sounds killer. Maybe another time, if he comes back, Dean will get adventurous, but it’s gotta be the bacon cheddar.

Smalltalk is weird. Dean’s still not used to spending enough time around people to have to bother with small talk. There’s an awkward stiltedness to everything like neither one of them is quite sure which topics are safe and which are off-limits and which aren’t forbidden but are far too boring to bother with. It’s a fine dance. On a scale of weather to politics and religion, there’s a happy medium somewhere, but damn if Dean or Cas can hit it for trying. What’s in the middle? Family stuff? Could be safe, but given Dean’s own family situation he feels less than comfortable asking about Cas’. Work? Work should be fine right?

“So working in the security business, you must have some interesting stories, hey?” Dean asks, trying his very hardest to be casual and conversational. They’ve just put in their orders, identical bacon cheddar burgers with fries, and a side of deep fried pickles to split. Dean is skeptical about the pickles, but Cas says they are absolutely worth it.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Cas confirms.

“I suppose you can’t really tell me though,” Dean says as an afterthought. “Cause like, security, right?”

He gets a throaty laugh in reply, one that lights up Cas’ face with mirth. “I can tell you vague stories. No names. But yeah the whole point is to protect people and their businesses so…”

“Gotcha,” Dean assures him. “No identifying details. What’s your favourite customer story then?”

Cas leans in conspiratorially, taking a sip off his soda before speaking. Dean noticed that he waited until after Dean ordered his drink to make a decision. At the time it looked like he was just being polite and letting Dean go first, but now he thinks Cas didn’t want to order alcohol if Dean wasn’t, and that feels like an important detail. He just can’t figure out why. “A few years ago, I sold an alarm installation to company for the warehouse they were opening. About a month after we got everything installed and connected, I received a panicked call from their foreman. He was livid that their carbon monoxide detectors started going off for no reason, as he put it.”

“That doesn’t sound too weird. I mean, annoying if you buy something and it doesn’t work, but not weird.”

“Oh no,” Cas tells him, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s not the half of it. I don’t usually handle technical support, we have a team in the office for that, but I figured the least I could do was get the details of it so I could have them call him. And what I managed to get out of him was that the detectors in the warehouse kept going off when they were running their forklifts with the doors closed, and it was really hindering productivity.”

Dean thinks he knows where this is going, but he lets Cas finish anyway.

“So I said, sir, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are your forklifts electrically powered? And he says, of course not, they’re gas powered, but I don’t see why that makes a difference. And I had to very politely inform the man that the reason his carbon monoxide detectors were going off was because he was in fact flooding the unventilated warehouse space with carbon monoxide from the exhaust, and they were performing the exact function I’d sold them to him for, and he should perhaps vent the space before he killed one of his employees.”

“You’re kidding me!” Dean says through his laughter.

“I wish I was,” Cas assures him. “But it just goes to show you that there are different types of intelligence. Mostly, I deal with normal, reasonable people.”

“Heck with those guys,” Dean says earnestly. “Tell me about the unreasonable ones.”

~*~

“I had no fucking idea alarms were so complicated,” Dean confesses, just as their food arrives. “Like they seem complicated in movies but I figured about 90 percent of that was made up to fit the script.”

“Oh it totally is. Most of what you see in movies is completely fake. They’re just a completely different kind of complicated. Deep fried pickle?” Cas holds out the plate towards Dean. He takes one of the crispy little discs hesitantly and pops it into his mouth.

“Amazing,” Dean mumbles around his bite of food. “Whoever invented these is a genius.”

“I told you,” Cas says, his nose wrinkling just a little.

“I will remember not to doubt you next time.” The conversation lulls a little now that there’s food in front of them, but the laughter has paved the way for it to be a comfortable silence. Dean now has the mental image of Cas showing up at a biker gang’s clubhouse to quote them on a CCTV system, trying valiantly to get through the meeting without angering any of them but still hoping for a sale. He’d thought that was pretty ballsy until Cas told him he hadn’t just dropped in for a visit, he was invited, but hadn’t actually known what the place was until he arrived. Still ballsy, just less laughing in the face of danger.

Cas laughs softly. “Doubt me all you want. My ego can take it, as can my pride if you decide you just want this to be a friendly thing, so just move at your own speed and we’re fine.” Dean’s eyes shoot up. “Sorry. I just. You smell nervous. You smell terrified.”

Dean cringes. “Yeah I uh…”

“You don’t have to explain anything, Dean. How is your burger? Good?”

Dean takes the out. Having the express permission not to rush into anything helps, but he’s also desperately happy not to have to talk through any of it right now. He might not ever want to do the talking thing, but especially not now. “So good.” He takes another sizeable bite to prove how serious he is.

“They make me very happy,” Cas agrees. “I figured last time you had one of their burgers you weren’t in a position to enjoy it very much and that didn’t seem fair.”

“This is the place?” Dean exclaims. “From when I was…”

“Yes, from when you were under my care. If I was having a rough time and someone was going to bring me comfort food, this is where I’d want it to come from, so it felt like a safe bet.”

“Way better than I remember, then,” Dean admits, “’cause I just remember it being food at the time.” He doesn’t like talking about his heats. It’s embarrassing. There’s something deeply shameful about being that far out of his own control for so long, but somehow talking to Cas about it doesn’t have him looking for an exit like it normally would. He still wants to change the subject like, immediately, but at least he doesn’t want to crawl under the table.

“Then I’m glad I brought you here,” Cas says with a smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches a glimpse of a face he would rather not see, here or anywhere else. “Shit,” he grumbles, reaching for a napkin.

“Dean? What’s wrong?” Cas asks with concern on his face. His scent takes on a sour note, worry and uncertainty. Dean wonders if his own scent carries those notes all the time.

“Crowley,” Dean replies almost under his breath. The slimy little toad is too far away to hear Dean even if he spoke at a normal volume, but the subterfuge somehow feels necessary.

“Ignore him,” Cas says calmly, solidly. “He is not worth your time or your energy. Focus on me. Focus on your burger. He doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, but he doesn’t feel it. He tries though.

Naturally, the conversation hits a bit of a lull as they eat. With burgers this good, there isn’t room in Dean’s mouth for words, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind. Dean catches him smiling softly between bites, apparently just pleased to be in Dean’s company. It’s not something he’s used to. Or rather, it didn’t used to be. It’s getting familiar. With Charlie, and with Benny to an extent, and with Cas. The luxury of being allowed to exist without serving an end. He eats his burger, and he smiles when his mouth isn’t full.

It’s not silent, because the room is full and busy and everyone else is making noise, but Dean thinks he might possibly comprehend what a comfortable silence might feel like.

“I don’t know what it is about bacon and cheese together that makes everything so much better,” Dean announces, swiping a single French fry through a glob of mayonnaise and ketchup that fell out of his burger, “but it’s one of man’s greatest accomplishments.” He pops the fry into his mouth with satisfaction.

“I think that’s probably an exaggeration.”

‘Hyperbole, man.”

Cas laughs. “Ah so we’re at the point of the evening where we start employing literary devices to move conversation along are we? I think I’ve got some alliteration around here somewhere, let me just check my coat pocket.”

“As long as you don’t start talking in rhyme.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t try to woo you with poetry?”

Dean shakes his head. “Zep lyrics are about all the poetry I need.”

Cas grins. As he’s telling the waiter they’re ready for their bill, Dean spots Crowley leaving the restaurant. He’s walking away, just the back of his head and the hunch of his shoulders visible out the window, but as if he feels Dean’s eyes on him the man turns his head just long enough to look Dean in the eye and twist his face into a crooked smile, and then he’s gone.

Dean hesitates when he pulls the car up in front of Cas’ place. He doesn’t really know where the burst of chivalry comes from, but he kills the engine and steps out so he can walk Cas up to the house. Cas has his keys in hand, ready to unlock the door, and Dean can hear them jingle as they walk up the path.

“Thank you for tonight, Dean,” Cas says when they reach the door. “I always enjoy myself with you.”

Dean blushes. “Thanks for dinner. I, you know, I don’t date much. But this was good.” This close, Cas’ scent invades his nostrils, heady and intoxicating. There’s something soothing and warm, calming almost, in the way Cas smells. Something that makes Dean feel safe and comfortable.

“It was,” Cas agrees. “You know, if you’re not in a hurry to get home, I do have half a pie from Lafitte’s in the fridge. If you want dessert, that is.” And it’s such an escape from the uncertainty, because Dean is standing there wondering if he should kiss Cas, or if Cas is going to kiss him, and if he wants Cas to kiss him, and he does really like pie, so he takes it.

“Sure,” he says, “pie sounds awesome.”

Cas’ place looks just as he remembered it, only without shame clouding his senses. He tries to push out of his mind the memory of last time he was here, when he was in trouble and desperate. Cas leads him into the kitchen and pulls half a cherry pie out of the fridge and, instead of cutting slices, sets it on the counter with two forks.

“You know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Dean takes one of the forks and scoops out a bite of the pie. Anything he could say on the quality of it would sound empty and self-serving since he’s pretty sure he baked this one himself, but he gives a little hum of approval anyway.

“I generally find that to be solid advice. Works in both directions too. I believe the first time we met you sold me donuts.” Dean looks up to catch the smile on Cas’ face, and notices there’s a little bit of cherry filling on his lip.

“You’ve got a little,” Dean starts, gesturing at his own lip. Cas wipes at the wrong side of his mouth, missing the filling entirely. “Here, let me.” He reaches out to wipe away the smear, instead dragging the pad of his thumb across the corner of Cas’ lip, and that turns into Cas leaning into his touch, and fuck it, Dean steps closer and kisses him.

If it startles Cas, if he wasn’t expecting it, he does a great job of hiding it. His scent stays steady and comforting, he doesn’t freeze up, he just goes with it. Dean hears his fork clatter to the counter and the hand that was holding it comes up to rest ever so gently on Dean’s hip, steadying them both. Dean’s the one that started it, but when Cas’ tongue traces the seam of his lips, it nearly steals his breath away. He leans into Cas’ touch, reveling in the warmth of another body so close to his, and for a little while, he gets lost. He gets lost in the feeling of firm hands on his hips, and the taste of cherry pie on his lips. Dean’s cock stirs in his jeans, thickening at the mere idea of what this evening could turn out to be if only he let it. And god, does Dean want to let it.

Dean wants Cas closer. He knows it’s a hormone thing, knows it’s because he’s omega and Cas is alpha and there’s chemicals telling his brain to do things, but he wants it all the same. His own hands rest on Cas’ biceps, feeling the strong muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. His alpha is a strong alpha, and he makes Dean feel safe. He smells like earthy spices and woodsmoke and home, and Dean wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. He wants, in a way he couldn’t articulate even if he tried to find the words, to take whatever Cas is offering and give whatever he’s asking in return. He wants to make his alpha happy.

His alpha.

Only then does Dean realize what he’s doing, what he’s letting himself do. He’s letting his guard down, he’s letting an alpha get close, and he’s put Cas between himself and the exit. Cas is strong, probably stronger than Dean, and he’s not boxing Dean in but he could be, he could be, and it is instantly far more than he is prepared to handle.

“Dean?” Cas asks, his voice worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts, angry at himself, angry in general. It’s not an explanation, not even half of one.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Cas’ hands are off him now, he’s stepping away, and Dean has space to breathe and move and he feels like the world’s biggest asshole for needing it.

Dean snorts. “I’m really not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

And isn’t that a loaded question? It would be so much easier if Cas knew how fucked up he was, how much his life has fucked him up, but that involves discussing it, and Dean has never once done that with another human being. It’s his own personal shame.

“Not really,” he replies finally.

“Okay then, let’s just eat some pie.”

And it’s that simple, apparently. It feels like it shouldn’t be. It feels like it should be a big fucking deal. Dean started it. He kissed Cas first and then freaked out, and that should be a deal breaker, but it isn’t. Cas’ lips are still red from the ferocity of their brief makeout session, but he seems just as happy to part them for a bite of pie and Dean cannot wrap his mind around it.

Later, when Dean goes home, Cas hesitates like he wants to kiss him goodnight or something, but he waits for Dean to call the shots, and that means basically everything. Dean doesn’t kiss him.

He goes home feeling like an asshole.


End file.
